Once or Twice Upon a Time
by Loudmouth Lamb
Summary: Before Panem, Madge and Gale keep crashing into each other. That's the problem with being soulmates. A collection of Gadge one-shots about their past life encounters.
1. Spring is in the Air (1950s)

**AN:** I love history and I love Gadge, so I decided to bring two of my favorite things together. If you've got a particularly favorite time period or historical event you'd like to see them thrown into, let me know and I'll see what I can come up with :)

* * *

 **1954**

 **Dogtown, Alabama**

There was something about Spring mornings that made Madge feel young again. Standing barefoot on the dewy lawn, holding a damp newspaper in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other, she breathed in the smell of fresh bloomed gardenias. Spring was a time for possibility, for change, growth, and rebirth. For a moment, she allowed herself to hope, as she had as a child, that some great adventure waited for her just around the corner. She felt deep in her bones that the shape of her life was about to be irrevocably and wonderfully altered. It was a feeling that crept up on her every year around this time and every year she was disappointed. Nothing ever really changed. The promise of Spring was an empty one.

With a resigned sigh, she turned her back on the never-changing neighborhood. Breakfast wouldn't make itself. She was cracking an egg into the hot frying pan when she heard the _clunk clunk_ of her husband's wooden leg on the stairs. He was humming Elvis Presley and she smiled. Before the war, he hummed all of the time, but he hadn't much afterwards. The loss of his leg was no where near as painful as the loss of the music in him. After years of silence, she was glad for the humming, even though it used to drive her crazy.

"Something smells good," said Peeta, limping across the kitchen to give Madge a quick peck on the cheek.

"It'll be ready in a minute," she said. "Sit. I'll get your coffee. The paper's on the table."

Every morning, they went through the same routine. Peeta flipped through the news, reading out loud the interesting parts to her. Or at least the parts he thought she'd find interesting. "McCarthy's cracking down on the army," he said as she set his coffee cup down on the table and hurried back to the eggs before they burned. "By the time he's finished with them, there won't be a single Commie left."

"That's good, dear," said Madge, distracted. She didn't care for politics. Neither had Peeta until after the war.

"He's a little too zealous, if you ask me," Peeta went on. "Sees Red everywhere, even with his eyes closed."

Madge made a noncommittal murmur of agreement. She wasn't listening. She was still thinking about Spring. She'd married Peeta in the Spring, just a week after her eighteenth birthday. It was so long ago now that she couldn't remember the color of the bride's maids dresses, or the flavor of the cake, or how nervous she'd been, but she did remember the smell of her bouquet. Gardenias.

Peeta neatly folded the paper and set it aside to make room for the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon she placed before him. Madge buttered his toast, like she did every morning. It was something she used to enjoy doing. For the first year of their marriage, she'd gotten a thrill out of being a good homemaker, a good wife. Making him happy had made her happy. Now it was all par for the course. Same old, same old. Butter the toast, wash the dishes, tuck in tight the corners of the bed. Her life was a series of chores. She never complained and Peeta never asked her for a thing. If she stayed in bed all day chain smoking, he wouldn't care. She did the cooking and cleaning, because she didn't know what else to do with herself.

Madge sat across from him, sipping her coffee, watching him eat. She always waited to have her breakfast with the children, but she knew Peeta didn't like to sit at the table alone.

"I was thinking of making a roast for dinner," she said after a while of listening to him chew.

Peeta swallowed. "I've got to work late tonight," he said.

"Again?"

"The cakes won't bake themselves."

"Well, I'll keep a plate warm for you," she said. "What sides do you want?"

"Anything will do."

He always said that. Still, she asked. They retreated back into their respective silences. Outside, the world was spinning, the leaves turning green. Inside, everything was permanent, fixed in place, removed from time.

* * *

Katniss was cozied up in bed, reading the paper, and humming Elvis. She'd never much cared for Rock-n-Roll, but lately, she seemed to have the same Elvis song stuck in her head. Gale didn't ask about it. Living with her peacefully required no questions. They came and went as they pleased, flitting in and out of each other's lives, careful not to leave footprints. On the odd occasion they found themselves together in their boxy, one-bedroom apartment, like now, the air became dizzyingly thin.

"Where are my socks?" asked Gale, interrupting her humming.

"Top drawer," said Katniss without looking up from the paper. Her obsession with the news was new, just like the Elvis. When they first met, she'd rather jump from the roof of the Empire State Building than read about McCarthy.

"I've looked there," he said. He'd been sifting through the top drawer for ten minutes. His black socks weren't there, but he noticed a few new pairs of underwear, not the practical kind Katniss preferred, but the kind he tried to get her to wear when they were dating.

"Which socks?" she asked.

"The black ones," said Gale.

Finally, she tore her eyes away from the _growing Communist crisis_ to give him a dry smile. "You've got a lot of those," she said. For a second, he was tempted to mention that none of them were clean, but that would only lead to a fight. Really, he didn't give a damn if Katniss did the laundry or not. From day one, he knew she'd make a terrible wife. He'd married her knowing that. The blonde, blue-eyed wives on the magazine covers had never appealed to him. He wanted a woman, not a wife, not a maid.

He was already late for work, so he took a pair of black socks from the hamper and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. "What's the joke today?" he asked.

"It's not funny," she said. It was a habit of her's to judge for the both of them. Usually, Gale didn't mind. Their tastes were almost identical, but she'd changed so much in the last few months, he didn't trust her the way he used to.

He was lacing up his boots, when Katniss put down the paper and said, "I think I'll visit Prim today."

"Oh yeah?" said Gale. "That'd be nice." He knew she was lying. If she was telling the truth, she never would've put down the paper. Lying took her full concentration and she was still terrible at it.

"I haven't seen her in a long time," Katniss went on, trying too hard.

Gale smiled at her over his shoulder. "Well, tell her hello from me."

"I'll probably stay for dinner, so you'll have to scrounge something up yourself."

"No problem," he said, striding towards the bedroom door. Katniss hadn't cooked for him in over a year. As he made his way to the factory, he couldn't help wondering if she ever cooked for _him_. The other man, the one she'd bought the underwear for, the one who listened to Elvis, and liked to talk about politics. The man she was changing herself for, like she'd never tried to change for him.

Gale didn't hate her for the affair. He didn't blame her for their shamble of a marriage. After all, he'd never asked her to change, had always just swept her faults under the rug until there was no more room to hide them. If the failure was anyone's fault, it was his.

* * *

Madge didn't need to start supper for another two hours. She'd done the grocery shopping after dropping Alice off at school. Timothy was down for his nap and she was just settling in to write a letter to her parents, who were vacationing in New York, when the bell rang. She wasn't expecting any visitors, so she wasn't surprised to find Johanna Mason standing on her doorstep. They'd been friends for over a decade. Madge had long since accepted that Johanna wasn't one for calling ahead and making plans. She went where she wanted, when she wanted, and took pleasure in arriving at the most inconvenient time.

Without waiting to be invited in, Johanna pushed past Madge and led the way back to the living room. "It's good to see you, too," said Madge, following after her.

"Is Peeta here?" she asked sharply.

"No, he's at the bakery. Why?"

"We need to talk," said Johanna. She sat and gestured for Madge to do the same, like this was her house. Johanna had a way of taking ownership of every room she entered. If this were the White House, she'd tell President Eisenhower how much better it would look black, a paintbrush already in hand. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. She was a woman who never beat around the bush.

"Peeta's having an affair," she declared the moment Madge was seated. "Annie saw him with another woman. She didn't want to tell you, but I thought you deserved to know."

Madge waited for the shock to hit. Any second now, she expected to be bowled over by grief, betrayal, even rage. That's how women were supposed to react to this sort of news. Johanna wasn't a gossip. She didn't spread rumors and never said anything she didn't know for a fact to be true, so Madge had no reason not to believe her now. A few minutes passed, though, and still she felt nothing.

"When?" she finally said.

"A few months ago," said Jo, a cigarette balanced between her lips. She struck a match, lit her smoke, and extinguished the flame all in one smooth flick of her wrist. "Annie only just told me on Monday. You know how she hates drama."

A few months? At that, Madge did feel something. Her cheeks turned pink. All of those late nights at the bakery, all of the missed dinners, and the late phone calls of the past few months. The humming and the way Peeta smiled, like he hadn't since before the war. It was all so obvious. She felt stupid for not realizing sooner what was going on. Annie knew. Johanna knew. Who else did?

"I wanted to be certain before I came to you," said Johanna. "So I followed him yesterday. He picked her up downtown."

"Who?" said Madge. "Did you recognize her?"

Johanna looked around for an ashtray, found none, and ashed her cigarette into the dregs of Madge's forgotten teacup on the table. "No," she said, leaning back against the couch. "But I asked around a little. Her name's Katniss Hawthorne. She lives in one of those red brick apartments on Pearl Street, works at the diner."

"You should become a private investigator," said Madge with a little chuckle. Then she remembered that she wasn't supposed to find any of this amusing. Johanna gave her a curious look.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "I know this must be a shock."

It should be a shock. In all the years they'd been married, Peeta had never so much as looked twice at another woman. He was as faithful as Sunday morning. He was everything a husband should be. Their life together was everything it should be. They were the perfect picture of a respectable, middle class family. Madge wanted for nothing that he didn't immediately provide. She had everything she'd imagined having as a little girl, except for one thing that she hadn't realized was missing from her life until this moment.

Peeta was having an affair and she felt nothing, because she didn't love him. Not in the way that a wife was supposed to love her husband.

* * *

Gale didn't have any doubts that he'd loved Katniss in the beginning. Loved her more than he thought himself capable of until he met her. She was everything he'd dreamed of. Determined and untamable. A dark-haired beauty who could cut you quick with a sarcastic remark and kept a man on his toes, always wondering what was really going on under her unruffled, laidback surface. He proposed after only dating for two months and now remembered that time as a whirlwind of flying colors and bright lights.

Soon after the honeymoon, he regained his sight. So did Katniss. They realized their mistake too late. Love was easy without responsibility, when you weren't living together, when you weren't tied to each other until death do you part. They were equally stubborn, equally flighty, and they'd shared a similar off-the-beaten track perspective of the world that had immediately bonded them together. That kind of connection was all well and good for dating, but for a marriage to work, there had to be a willingness to change, to make room for another person in your life. Something neither of them were good at.

Or maybe it was just him. After all, Katniss had changed an awfully lot for her new man. Gale had known about the affair for months. Over and over again, he debated confronting her, but they were hardly ever in the same place at the same time. It was never the right moment. Besides, he wasn't sure where he wanted to go from here. Divorce, of course, was an option. Divorce was extreme, even in his liberal opinion.

Once or twice, always late at night, when Katniss crawled into the bed with the other man's smell, something sweet and yeasty, all over her, he thought about tracking down her lover. Who was he? What did he look like? Would he wake up one morning to find Katniss' bags packed, her mysterious man waiting by the car to carry her away forever? More importantly, would Gale even care if she left?

For all of his midnight queries, he knew he'd never seek out the other man. It didn't matter who he was, what he looked like, what he did for a living, how much money he made. Those things didn't matter to Katniss and they didn't matter to Gale. He wasn't jealous, just curious sometimes. Whoever this man was, he must be something special to have made such an imprint on Katniss, who bowed for no one.

Gale rounded the corner onto Pearl, concerned more with what he was going to do for supper than where his wife was now, but he stopped short, his hunger forgotten, at the sight of a blonde woman loitering across the street from his apartment building. He'd never seen her before. If he had, he'd certainly remember. The way she was dressed, it was clear she didn't belong on this side of town.

Gale crossed the street, intending to ask if she needed directions, but as he approached, he noticed the nervous way she twisted a pair of white leather driving gloves in her hands. It dawned on him that she wasn't lost at all. She was looking up at the apartment with a purpose, craning her graceful, white neck and searching the rows of windows. He knew which one she was searching for.

"I'm guessing you're the wife," he said. Startled, her hand fluttered to her chest and she dropped the gloves. Gale bent down to pick them up. When he held them out to her, she made no move to take them. Her eyes were blue as a summer sky, but cold as winter with suspicion.

"Do I know you?" she said.

"No," said Gale. "But I think we have mutual acquaintances. I'm Gale Hawthorne." A flicker of recognition passed across the woman's face, confirming his theory that she was who he suspected.

"I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "I've never heard of you." And with that, she spun on her heels to leave. Madge felt foolish at having been caught. Immediately after Johanna left, she picked Alice up from school, dropped the children off at Aunt Maysilee's, and came straight to the address Johanna wrote down for her. She didn't intend to confront the woman her husband was sleeping with. She merely wanted to catch a glimpse, see for herself, hoping that if she did, she might feel the way she was supposed to about this whole affair. She certainly hadn't expected to meet the other woman's husband.

"You forgot your gloves," he called after her. Madge was tempted to walk on. Let him keep the gloves. Give them to Katniss for all she cared, but there was her dignity to think of. She wasn't going to run away like a frightened rabbit. She had every right to be here, to be curious.

"Thank you," she said, taking the gloves from him. They stood for a few minutes in silence, neither of them sure what to say next, the dark gathering around them. Madge didn't know the proper protocol for this particular situation. She wasn't sure there was any. This man was a stranger. A very handsome one.

Gale braved the awkwardness first. "Do you want to come in? Talk or something?" he asked. Madge's eyes widened in horror and he fought not to laugh. "Katniss isn't home," he assured her.

"I know," said Madge. Katniss was somewhere with Peeta. "It wouldn't be appropriate for me to come inside."

Gale couldn't hold back a little snort of laughter this time. "What, is your husband going to get mad?" he asked, bringing a blush to her cheeks. The joke was in ill-taste. It was inconsiderate. She was probably grieved enough as it was, without him making light of the matter.

He was preparing to apologize when she said, "Alright then. Let's talk."

* * *

"Sorry about the mess," said Gale, clearing dirty dishes from the coffee table. Some of them were from last week. Between his work schedule and Katniss' affair, neither of them had much time for chores. He carried an armload of dishes into the kitchen, less than ten feet away, dumped them into a sink with a clatter, and returned to find the other man's wife still hovering by the door.

"I don't mind, Mr. Hawthorne," she said, the perfect picture of politeness. Given the circumstances, he was impressed by her self possession.

"Call me Gale," he said. "And you are?"

"Madge," she said, stepping further into the room. She held out her hand to him. "Madge Mellark."

 _Mellark_ , he thought, checking his mental files for the name and coming up with nothing. The mystery man remained a mystery. After another minute of uncomfortable silence, Gale disappeared back into the kitchen. This time he returned with two glasses and a bottle of cheap liquor tucked under his arm.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the sofa with one hand, while pouring with the other. Madge Mellark didn't sit. He held up one of the glasses to her. "I think this is a whiskey kind of conversation."

Madge had to agree. She took the drink gladly. She hadn't had whiskey since her pregnancy with Alice. The burn was stronger than she remembered. Her eyes watered and she dabbed at them with her gloves. _Don't sip it,_ Peeta told her the first time they stole from her father's liquor cabinet. They were sixteen years old and she'd been sick for days afterwards. That hadn't' stopped her from trying again.

 _Don't sip_ , she thought, tossing down the rest of it. When the whiskey hit her stomach, it felt like being stabbed in the stomach. She kept her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, waiting for it to pass. Once it did, she sat down and put the empty glass on the coffee table. Gale filled it to the brim this time, then topped off his own.

"So, how long have you know?" asked Madge, dropping all pretense.

"Six months, give or take a week. You?"

"Six hours," she said, draining her glass again. "Give or take a second," she added with a half smile.

Gale was even more impressed. For a woman who'd just found out that her husband was a cheater, she seemed awfully well-adjusted. She circled a finger around the rim of her glass, the only indication that she was at all nervous. It wasn't every day she found herself alone with a strange man in his house. She didn't know anything about this Hawthorne fellow, other than that his wife was fooling around town with her husband.

Madge studied him in stolen, pieced together glances. He was ridiculously handsome, which meant his wife was likely ridiculously beautiful. His plain, navy slacks and matching button-down shirt were streaked with black grease. He must've just gotten off work. His black hair sticking up at odd angles, the shadow of stubble across his chiseled jaw, and the amused twinkle in his clear gray eyes, all added up in the best possible way. Most of the men she knew were clean-cut, well mannered, safe and dull. She'd married Peeta mainly for his wit. He used to make her laugh herself breathless. Sometimes he still did. But he'd never set her pulse racing the way it was now.

"How long have you been married to…" He trailed off, raising one dark eyebrow in a question.

"Peeta," Madge finished for him. "We've been married twelve years."

Gale let out a low whistle. "Shit," he said, filling her glass again. "That's rotten."

"It's been a good twelve years," she said, a tad defensive. "What about you and…" She knew the name, but couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Five years," said Gale. "Feels like a thousand and one. Got any kids?"

"Two," she answered promptly, almost like this was a job interview. "A girl and a boy."

"How old?"

"Seven and two."

"Shit," he said again, refilling his own glass this time. Madge didn't need to ask if he and Katniss had any children. It was obvious from the state of their tiny apartment that they didn't. "Are you going to leave him?" he asked. His bluntness left her dizzy. Or was it the whiskey taking effect?

"I don't know. I haven't thought about it," she answered honestly. She thought about it now. She and the children could stay with Maysilee and Haymitch. But for how long and what then? How would she explain it all to Alice and Timothy. They were too young to understand. Besides, Peeta was a spectacular father. She wouldn't take them away from him.

"Do you think they're in love?" she asked.

"Katniss is," said Gale with a shrug. "I can't speak for your man."

"I think he is, too," she said, putting down her glass. "This is quite a predicament we've stumbled into, Mr. Hawthorne."

"Gale," he corrected her. Though they'd only just met, he felt they were beyond formalities.

"Gale," she repeated. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "Do you love your wife?"

"Every other day," he said lightly.

"What about today?"

"Not so much today," he said, his voice a shade deeper than it'd been before. She licked the whiskey from her lips and a heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol pooled in his stomach. "Do you love your husband?"

She leaned in a little further. "No, not so much today," she said, her smile an invitation that he was all too happy to accept.

* * *

Madge was a good wife. Before that, she'd been a good girl. The only man she'd ever been with was her husband. But now, as Gale undid the buttons down the front of her dress, his calloused hands just barely grazing bare skin, she realized how much time she'd wasted on being good. Her dress puddled to the floor, followed by her shift. Standing naked in the dim yellow light of the apartment, she expected to feel nervous, ashamed, guilty. As Gale's smoky eyes raked over her from head to dainty foot, she felt only a thrilling tingle wherever his gaze travelled.

"Your husband's an idiot," he said, his hands taking over for his eyes. Madge shuddered. She was far from a blushing bride, but his exploratory caresses made her feel young again, like Spring. Here was the change she'd been waiting for all of her life. Hands trembling with expectation and impatience, she undressed him and took her turn to explore.

Gale closed his eyes, his head tipped back, as she kissed her way down his chest, his stomach, and lower. When she reached a certain point, Katniss was wiped from his mind like she'd never existed. Madge Mellark was the only woman in the world. He sank down to the floor and he kept sinking.

* * *

Thoroughly exhausted, Madge collapsed against him, her ear pressed to his sweaty chest, his heart thumping against her flushed cheek. Her body was still humming from all of the things he'd done to it. Things she hadn't known were possible.

"I should go," she finally said, sitting up. Gale wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back down for one more deep kiss, before letting her go. He watched her dress from the floor, his hands folded behind his head, stupid drunk on the memory of her from twenty minutes ago, riding him like a steed in need of being broken in. On first seeing her, he'd never have expected her to have such a voracious appetite. Not that he was complaining. He'd always loved surprises and he suspected that Madge Mellark was full of them.

"Peeta will be out of town next week," she said, slowly doing up her last three buttons.

"What a coincidence," said Gale, grinning up at her. "So will Katniss."


	2. Puritanical (1690s)

**AN:** So I don't know about you, but I read one too many books about the Salem Witch Trials as a kid...

* * *

Haverhill, Massachusetts

1693

At sixteen, Margaret was finished growing. Her dress was made to fit comfortably for a full year, yet she struggled to fasten the stays, her whole face flushed from her furious effort. The dress had to fit. It was new, tailored to her exact measurements, which shouldn't have changed in the just the past three months.

"It isn't going to fit," said Johanna.

"Of course it will," snapped Margaret, redoubling her efforts. Johanna took hold of her hands to still them.

"Wear something else," she said. Her frank, mud-brown eyes said so much more, but Margaret didn't want to understand.

"I can't," she said. "Mother will expect me to wear this one. It's new."

Johanna pursed her thin lips for a second, thinking quick. Then she pinched one of Margaret's buttons between her thumb and forefinger and pulled it free, the thread breaking with a sharp snap.

Horrified, Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but Johanna gave her no opportunity. "You can't wear it now. Mother would agree."

"She'll be angry," said Margaret.

Johanna's eyes dropped briefly to the subtle swell of her stomach straining against the dress. "Not as angry as she will be," she said flatly. Margaret still pretended not to understand her sister's meaning.

* * *

Reverend Snow drew his sermon from Deuteronomy yet again. After a dozen Sabbaths of suffering through the same speech, Margaret couldn't help wondering if the reverend had even read any other part of the Bible. As if she could somehow hear the blasphemous thought flit across Margaret's mind, her mother looked away from the pulpit just long enough to shoot her a silent reproach.

Margaret straightened up and gave her full attention to the word of God, falling from Reverend Snow's lips like hail. "For a fire will be kindled by my wrath, one that burns down to the realm of the dead below. It will devour the earth and its harvests and set afire the foundations of the mountains."

She was distracted again by a prickle at the back of her neck. Gale was staring at her. She didn't need to turn around to know. His gaze was distinct. It was hellfire.

* * *

 _Three months ago..._

One kiss led to another and, somehow, Margaret found herself lying in the grass under Gale Hawthorne, his leg nudged between her's, his mouth making a fiery trail from her cheek, along her jaw, and down her neck. "Are you frightened?" she asked him.

"No," he chuckled into the hollow of her collar bone. "Are you?"

"Yes," she admitted. Gale stopped what he was doing to meet her doubtful blue eyes.

"Of what?" he asked.

"You," she said.

"I won't hurt you," he said. Margaret knew that he would hurt her, if she let him, and she so wanted to let him. She knew from her mother that there would pain the first time, but that wasn't what she was most afraid of. Her concerns were spiritual, not physical.

Gale pressed a soft kiss to her lips, then another, and another, each one more insistent than the last. His tongue traced over her bottom lip, asking for permission. With a whimper, Margaret put her hands to his chest and pushed him away, only a little.

"We mustn't," she said. "It's a sin."

"You could never be a sin," he said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Even the smallest touch of his fingertips against her cheek sparked forbidden desire. Margaret didn't have a hope in heaven of resisting him. She curled her fingers into his shirt and pulled him back down, craving the taste of wild strawberries on his lips.

There was pain, but it was sweeter than she expected, not at all like the horrors her mother spoke of. She felt God more closely than she ever had before. There was something sacred in the way their bodies fit so perfectly together. How could this be sin, when it felt more pure that prayer?

* * *

"The young men and young women will perish," said Reverend Snow. His voice was dry and thin, like old parchment. He never raised it. Never beat his fists against the pulpit in a divine fury. His faith was quiet and all the more terrifying for it. "For they are a perverse generation," he said. Margaret felt he was staring directly at her. "Children who are unfaithful."

Her mother, and the Reverend, and Gale Hawthorne weren't the only ones watching her. God saw everything. He'd seen what happened in the meadow and now he was punishing her. Nausea rolled through her. She clamped her white lips together, trying to hold the sickness at bay. Her skin burned under God's wrathful eye, reflected in Reverend Snow's.

"You forgot the Rock who fathered you," he said. "You forgot the God who gave birth to you." Graveyard words wriggled deep in Margaret's belly. She dug the heels of her palms into her flesh. "I will send wasting famine against them, consuming pestilence and deadly plague." God had sent a plague upon her for what she'd done in the meadow. She was powerless against it. "I will send against them the fangs of wild beasts, the venom of vipers that glide in the dust."

Margaret doubled over and heaved into her lap, before God and man. There was no denying it any longer. She was with child.

* * *

Margaret pleaded with her parents not to send for the doctor. "I was overheated, that's all," she swore to them. Lying was a sin, especially lying to one's mother and father, but she'd already reserved a seat for herself in a hell. The damage was good and done. She was confined to bed, with nothing to do but fret and watch the first snow of the year gather on the windowsill. Without being conscious of it, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, cradling her unborn burden. When the door opened, she hurriedly tucked her arms against her sides, under the feather quilt.

It was only Johanna, her dark hair dusted with snow. "They've arrested Goody Sae," she announced, still breathless from the cold.

Margaret shot up in bed. "When?" she asked. "Why?"

"Why else?" said Johanna. "Witchcraft."

"Impossible," cried Margaret. "She's a harmless old woman."

"She cursed Magistrate Crane," said Johanna. "The next day two of his best cows keeled over for no apparent reason."

Goody Sae was always cursing people. Nothing had ever come of it before. As far as anyone knew, she'd never been married. She lived with her nephew, Haymitch Abernathy, a notorious drunk, and supported the both of them by selling the small trinkets she made. Her lifestyle was eccentric, her tongue keen, and her temper quick, but she was certainly no witch.

"There's talk they mean to take Haymitch into custody soon," said Johanna. She paused, studying her sister for a moment, considering her next words with particular care. It was unlike her to think before she spoke. "The Hawthornes have made vocal their disapproval of the situation."

At the name Hawthorne, Margaret was set aflame. Her hands fluttered to her stomach again. She thought of one of her clandestine meetings with Gale in the meadow, just after word reached Haverhill of the three women hanged for Witchcraft in nearby Salem.

* * *

 _Six months ago..._

"Soon Massachusetts will be overrun with witches," said Gale, pacing restlessly. Margaret followed his every agitated movement with her eyes.

"Surely not here," she said. She didn't share his concern. Salem was many miles away. They were safe from the hysteria in Haverhill.

"Surely here," said Gale, letting loose a brusque, humorless laugh. "Mark my word, Reverend Snow will be one of the first to join the frenzy. You've heard him speak. He approves of the hangings."

"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," quoted Margaret. "Yes, I've heard him a thousand times, but if these Salem women truly are witches-"

Gale cut her short with a scathing glance. "They're not," he said with a conviction so deep she didn't dare argue. "They're only sin is in being outcasts. My father's seen this before. Someone insults their neighbor and then the neighbor cries witchcraft. It's petty feuding, that's all." He ceased pacing, though the storm inside him had far from blown itself out. "These people call themselves godly," he spat. "But they are rotten with hypocrisy, blinded by pride, fattened by greed. Reverend Snow's the worst of the lot."

"Curb your tongue," said Margaret. She reached up for the hem of his shirt and pulled him down beside her. "Calm your heart," she said, placing her hand lightly against his chest, "before it leads you into trouble."

Gale put his hand over her's, keeping it in place. His expression remained troubled and clouded. "Dark days are coming," he said.

"Then enjoy the sun while it shines," said Margaret. He looked at her pityingly. Before she could deduce why, the look passed away, and he gave her a smile so bright it cast everything else into shadow.

"You are my sun," he said. "I swear to you, here and now, no matter what happens, I'll protect you."

Margaret wanted to assure him that there was nothing to protect her from. He kissed her then and she never got the chance.

* * *

"Mr. Hawthorne means to speak to Reverend Snow," continued Johanna, filling in Margaret's memory heavy silence. "Father's gone to him twice to plead him against it, all for naught. Mr. Hawthorne says his principles won't allow him to sit idly by while innocent people are put to the rope."

"How do you know all of this?" asked Margaret. She doubted Johanna had heard it from their father, who never spoke to them of serious matters, ones that didn't concern young ladies.

"From Gale," said Johanna. Margaret winced. The response didn't go unnoticed by her older sister. Nothing ever did. "I can't go anywhere without him stepping on my heels, plaguing me with questions about your health. He's convinced you're laid up in your deathbed."

"You didn't tell him-"

"Of course not," said Johanna. "That's your place, not mine."

Margaret lowered her eyes to her swollen stomach. She couldn't hide her secret forever. It grew more apparent by the day. Neither could she tell Gale. She wanted to, more than anything. He'd promised to protect her, no matter what happened, and she didn't doubt him, but his family was in enough danger as it was. If they persisted in challenging Reverend Snow, then there was every possibility the next witch would bear the last name Hawthorne. To protect him in the only way she could, Margaret swore never tell a soul who the father of her growing burden was. If she was to burn for her sin, she meant to burn alone.

Margaret didn't realize that she was crying until Johanna threw back the quilt, letting in an icy draft, and joined her in the bed. "All will be well, little sister," she said softly, but stern, holding Margaret close. "I have a plan."

* * *

Johanna woke her in the middle of the night. She refused to say where they were going until Margaret was dressed and out the door. The snow still fell heavy. With her hood pulled low to shield her face from the bitter wind, she could only see a narrow strip of the world. For the hundredth time, she asked where they were stealing off to at the height of the witching hour.

"The Everdeen's," said Johanna.

Margaret froze mid-step. Her sister walked on a little, before noticing she wasn't following behind. "You mustn't just stand there," said Johanna, marching back to her.

"Why the Everdeen's?" said Margaret.

"Don't feign innocence now, little sister," said Johanna, her voice dense and steady against the wind. "You know what Goody Everdeen does."

"She's the midwife," said Margaret. Everyone knew that.

"Among other things," said Johanna. "Now come along." She took hold of Margaret's arm and steered her on through the ankle deep snow.

* * *

Margaret hid the pouch of pennyroyal leaves Goody Everdeen had given her in a hole she'd cut long ago into the underside of her mattress to hide the notes Gale left her. For a week, she slept on it, stewing over Goody Everdeen's instructions. _Steep the leaves in a tea, but not for long. If the brew's too potent, you will die._ Margaret regretted asking how she'd know whether the tea had worked or not. The woman's answer haunted her. _There will be a great deal of blood._

Johanna urged her daily to waste no more time. "Be done with it," she whispered late at night, the only time they dared speak aloud on the subject. Yet Margaret hesitated.

Her bedrest came to an end and she was allowed out of the house for fresh air, always in her mother's company. On one of their walks, Margaret was shocked senseless to find Gale standing in the middle of the reverend's yard. Their eyes met in passing. He looked so pained and perplexed by the distance she'd put between them. There was no more exchange of secret smiles or stolen conversations wherever and whenever they could risk them. Margaret ached more than ever to tell him all, but then his father stormed out of the reverend's house, and she remembered the precarious situation his family was in.

Haymitch Abernathy's trial stretched on for three days. Goody Sae's lasted only three hours. Both were found guilty of consorting with the Devil. On the eve of the hanging, upon returning home from her walk, Margaret found a dried and pressed wildflower, its color faded to brown, on the sill of her bedroom window. A message from Gale to meet him at the meadow.

She didn't go. She hid the flower with the pennyroyal and spent another sleepless night thinking about him waiting for her in the dark and the cold.

* * *

 _Nine months ago..._

Margaret took her time getting to the meadow. She wanted to make him wait, to suffer a while, wondering if she'd ever come. Instead, she found him napping, smiling at some peaceful dream, as if there was no disagreement between them. She kicked his leg to wake him. Then she kicked him again, simply because she wanted to.

"Why won't you ask my father for permission to court me?" she said, startled by her own brazenness. It suddenly crossed her mind that she may have misunderstood his affections. After all, he never spoke his intentions in words. At least not regarding their relationship. He could rant for years without pause about his intention to escape Reverend Snow's tyranny. "Aren't you fond of me?" she asked.

"More than fond," said Gale, propping himself up on his elbows. His gaze serious, if somewhat sleepy still. "If it's my heart you're after, go on and take it whenever you like."

"You love me, then?" said Margaret, wanting to be perfectly clear. No more riddles and insinuations. She needed to hear the words bare and exact.

"Yes," said Gale.

"Say it."

Gale moved to his feet in the blink of an eye. He took both of her hands into his. "Yes, I love you," he said, fully awake now. Margaret allowed herself a moment to bask in the warmth of his words and his touch. Then she drew back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Then why won't you speak for me?" she asked again. "My father will approve. He greatly respects your family. He's always spoken highly of your parents."

"I'm not worried about winning his approval," said Gale.

"Then why-?"

Before she could finish her question for a third time, he went on. "I don't want them to know."

"Who?"

"Everyone," he said, tossing his hands up in frustration. "If we make ourselves public, Reverend Snow, the entire Church, will become involved."

"If you intend to marry me, we will have to tell them," said Margaret coldly, but the passion of his next declaration thawed her completely.

"I will marry you," he said. "But on _our_ terms and no others." Margaret let him take her hands again. She was horribly conflicted, strained between the most immense pleasure and stiff disappointment.

"That is not how it's done," she said. "Do you propose we elope? I love you, but I cannot leave. This is my home."

"We can make a new home," said Gale, his eyes bright with possibility.

"But our families-"

"We can make a new family," he said. "I won't raise our children in this place, though."

Margaret blushed at the easy way he said _our children._ She was tempted to go with him now wherever he asked her to, even to the very edge of the world, but there was a weight in her otherwise light heart that held her firm. "I cannot leave," she said again.

"Then I'll wait until you can," he said, sounding so certain that such a day would come. Margaret wasn't so sure.

"And if I never can?" she said.

"Then I'll die waiting," he said, lifting one hand to cup her cheek. "For you, I would wait until Christ's Second Coming. I would rather spend my life waiting for you than settle for anyone else."

"You need not wait," said Margaret, frustrated by his principles. They could be wed today, were it not for his hatred of Reverend Snow and the magistrates, for his sinful stubbornness and righteous anger. Then again, if it weren't for those qualities, she might never have loved him to begin with."Please, I beg of you, speak to my father."

"No," said Gale. "Ask me anything else and I will do it. Anything but that."

They had reached a stalemate. Margaret knew there would be no changing his mind, at least not today. She sighed in defeat. As much as she loved him, she was too afraid of the world outside of Haverhill, all she'd ever known, to leave with him.

"I might marry someone else," she said. Gale brushed his thumb across her cheekbone and tilted his face close to her's, until their lips were less than an inch apart.

"Would you truly?" he said. Then, without giving her a chance to answer, he kissed her for the first time. From the moment his lips touched her's, she knew there could be no other.

* * *

The morning of the hanging dawned gray and misty. There was a biting chill in the air that no amount of woolen undergarments could keep out. All the same, Margaret was grateful for her winter layers. Her secret was shrouded beneath her cloak, while the gallows stood tall and proud against the cheerless sky. She shifted closer to Johanna, wishing she could take her sister's hand. _You mustn't flinch,_ Johanna had whispered to her last night. _You mustn't look away._

Margaret tried to keep her eyes fixed on the gallows, but they wandered in search of the Hawthornes. She couldn't find them. Reverend Snow would notice their absence. She did see Goodwife Everdeen nearby, flanked by her two daughters. All three wore solemn masks.

At the foot of the gallow steps, Goody Sae turned to her warden and said, "I will go on my own from here." Though her hands were bound behind her back and her spine bent from a long, hard life, she spoke not as a woman who'd been beaten, but as one who'd conquered the world. Her steps were steady and sure. As the noose was lowered over her gray, frizzled head, she did not flinch. She did not take her eyes away from Reverend Snow.

"I fear this be our last farewell," she said, speaking directly to him. "I go to God and you will most assuredly burn in Hell."

Haymitch Abernathy had nothing to add. He glared out at them all through red, bleary eyes. His hair hung in greasy clumps to his shoulders. He spat at the wooden boards under his booted feet. It was clear what he thought of them all, gathered at the gallows.

"There shall not be found among you anyone that maketh his son or daughter pass through the fire," said Reverend Snow, crisp and passionless. "There shall not be found among you anyone that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter…" He paused to raise his hand. "Or a witch," he finished, letting his hand drop. The floor below Goody Sae and Haymitch Abernathy opened up. There was a crack like thunder. Abernathy's neck broke clean. A quick and painless death. Goody Sae was less fortunate. Choking for breath, she kicked at the air and clawed at her noose. The rope groaned at her struggle, but it held fast to the very end.

Margaret didn't flinch. She did look away, sickened by how their bodies swayed in the howling wind. There at the edge of the square, she spotted Gale standing alone. She heard the ropes creaking and, for the first time, she thoroughly understood his burning resentment. She followed his gaze to Reverend Snow, who had never looked more pleased than he did now. _Be done with it,_ she thought, her hands clasped over her stomach.

* * *

Margaret didn't say goodbye to Johanna. If she did, she'd lose all courage. Instead, she left two letters, one for her parents and one for her sister. Her mother and father would forgive her in time. Johanna would understand. As she hurried to the meadow, she remembered a song she'd once heard Haymitch Abernathy sing on one of his drunken, midnight strolls through town. _Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met at midnight in the hanging tree._

Gale was waiting, true to his promise. He showed no surprise at her arrival. For a long time, they simply stared at each other in the moonlight. The wildflowers were all buried beneath muddy snow.

"Well," he said at last, "Have you done it?"

"Done what?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed. He stood with his arms crossed. "Katniss Everdeen is a close friend. I know you went to see her mother. I know why."

Margaret went pale as the snow. "She told you?"

"As you should have," he said sharply. "Is your opinion of me so low you thought I'd abandon you? Have I not proven that I love you beyond all else?"

"I know you do," she said.

"Then why doubt me?" he said, making Margaret shudder. His rage had never been turned against her before. "How could you do such a thing? How could you…" He trailed off, his anger fast switching to unutterable pain. He looked at her as if she'd betrayed him. "Our child," he said, his voice breaking. "How could you?"

"I only meant to protect you," said Margaret, stepping towards him. She took his hand, pried loose his fisted fingers, and held it against her stomach. "I didn't do it," she said.

Gale's face softened. His eyes lit with bewilderment and hope. "You didn't?"

"I couldn't," she said. Seeing Goody Sae and Haymitch Abernathy hang, all had become clear. Her faith could never be measured by a man such as Reverend Snow. He was not God. He did not speak for God. Too many innocents had perished already by his command. Margaret couldn't, in her own conscience, make it a third. If having a heart and mind of one's own was a sin, then so be it, but the child in her womb was a blessing, not a burden.

"I would like to marry you now, if your offer still stands," she said. "I know I've made you wait an awfully long time. If you've changed your mind-"

"Never," Gale cut her off. "I am yours eternally." His eyes dipped to her stomach, where she held his hand still. "And yours," he added, a proud smile on his lips.

"Are you frightened?" asked Margaret, as she had that day four months ago.

"No," he said. "Are you?"

"No," she said, squeezing his hand. Neither of them knew where they would go. The whole world stretched before them. She didn't doubt that evil lurked in disguise, in every corner, but she wasn't afraid of witches, or God, or the future she could not see. Together, she and Gale would live on their own terms. They would live in love, not fear or wrath. There was nothing holier than a life such as that.

* * *

 **Gale Lover:** So glad you like this! I hope these one-shots keep you happy until I get back to working on Riches to Rags :)

 **Hawtsee:** So, I may have fangirled a little when I saw your reviews. I've read just about all of your stuff and absolutely loved it, so your praise means a lot.

 **Guest:** Phew, it's good to hear I've got good story telling skills. It's what I went to college for, haha. To know that you're reading and enjoying my writing is a big, fat reminder that all of those evil school loans were totally worth it.


	3. Hungry Like the Wolf (1980s)

**AN:** Thank you all for the incredibly encouraging reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Some light-hearted fluff in the style of an 80s teen movie. P.S. If you've never heard "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran, listen as you read ;)

* * *

 **Groton, Massachusetts**

 **1985**

"But she's his sister," said Thom for the billionth time.

"She didn't know they were related when she kissed him," said Bristel.

"So what?" said Thom. "It's still sick. I can't stop thinking about it, man. All I'm saying is, what's the point of having the Force if you can't use it to keep from kissing your sister."

"That's not how the Force works," said Bristel, taking this argument way too seriously. "It takes years and years of cultivation. The kiss happened before Luke's training on Dagobah, so you can't expect him to…"

Gale wasn't listening. He'd heard this argument before and already knew how it would end. Eventually Thom and Bristel would agree that Princess Leia's bikini was the hands down best part of all three movies and any other difference of opinion between them would be forgotten until the next debate. Normally, Gale would chime in with some comment about how you couldn't really blame Luke Skywalker for having the hots for his sister, but not today.

Today, he was bored by everything, even his friends. He'd woken up that morning with the itch for adventure, an itch that always led to debauchery and disaster. He fished around in his pocket for a minute, found a half-smoked joint, and lit up, needing something to relieve the itch for just a little longer. His paper on the ethics of modern day warfare lay forgotten on the table. So far, he'd come up with a title, which after a few tokes, he crossed out. It was due on Monday, but he wasn't stressed. There were much more important things on his mind, like the party tonight. It was going to be a real blow out. His expectations were higher than he was.

He was deep in thought, trying to predict where the night would take him, when Thom and Bristel suddenly fell silent, both of them staring dumbfounded at the girl now standing at their table. Hands on her hips, blue eyes narrowed, she looked ready for battle. "Excuse me," she said crisply. "But could you keep it down? People are trying to study."

Gale glanced around. The library was empty except for the four of them. "What people?" he asked.

"Me," she snapped. Then she slapped the joint out of his hand and snuffed it out with the polished toe of her black Mary Janes. "This is a library, not your smoke den," she said, before marching back to her table. Gale followed her across the room with his eyes. She had a nice ass, even with that stick up it.

"Don't even think about it," said Thom.

"I never think if I can help it," said Gale, turning his attention back to his friends.

"She's Cato's girl," said Bristel.

"So?"

"So," said Thom, rolling his eyes, "She's out of bounds. You heard what happened when he found his ex-girlfriend shacking up with Darius."

"Poor Darius," added Bristel, shaking his head. "He'll have that limp for the rest of his life."

"Stupid Darius," said Thom. "He should've known better."

Gale's gaze drifted back to the blonde girl hunched over the books spread across her table, absentmindedly scratching the back of her neck with a pencil. She was pretty in that Virgin Mary sort of way. Not the sort of pretty he typically noticed, but there was something about knowing she belonged to Cato that made her seem like the most beautiful girl in the world.

"No," said Thom firmly, waving his hand in front of Gale's face. "Give it up while you've still got two legs attached to your body."

"Relax," said Gale. "She's not my type, any way."

Bristel and Thom exchanged uneasy glances. They knew Gale better than anyone. He always wanted what he couldn't have. He lived for danger and going after the quarterback's girl was riskier than leaping untethered from a ten story building.

"Don't expect me to cry at your funeral," said Thom.

* * *

Gale navigated between tables in the half empty dining hall to where Katniss sat by herself. "Where's the rest of the gang?" he asked, dropping into the chair across from her.

"Delly and Johanna are primping for the party," she said, frowning intently at her lasagna. " Bristel and Thom went with Ripper to get the keg."

"Good," said Gale. "Last time he got the cheap stuff and pocketed the change for himself."

"Well, they don't call him Ripper for nothing," said Katniss with a shrug. "He's always ripping off someone." She speared her lasagna on the end of her fork, raised it in the air, and let it fall back onto the plate with a rubbery squelch. "Hungry?" she asked, pushing the plate towards him.

"Pass," he said, scrunching his nose. "I don't want to puke that up later tonight. You and what's his name coming?"

"You know his name," said Katniss, exasperated by his juvenile behaviour. "We've been dating a year. He ate breakfast with us just this morning and told you his name for the millionth time."

"Oh right," said Gale. "It's Peter, isn't it?"

"You're such an ass," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said, flashing a not-so-sorry grin. "But come on, _Peeta_ isn't even a real name." It was the kind of bullshit name rich people loved giving their kids. To be fair, Peeta was an alright guy, but he didn't belong in their misfit band scholarship students.

Right now, though, Gale didn't want to get into another fight with Katniss about her boyfriend, so he grasped for the first segue that crossed his mind. "What's the story with Cato's new girl?"

"You mean Madge Undersee?" said Katniss.

 _Madge_ , he thought. That wasn't such a bad name, though it was probably short from something absurd.

"She lives on my hall," said Katniss. "Doesn't talk much. Her dad's some bigshot politician in Washington and her mom…" Katniss trailed off. Her brow furrowed. "Why are you asking about her?" she demanded.

"Just curious," said Gale. "We had a little run in earlier."

Katniss leaned forward across the table. "Leave her alone," she said, serious as stone. First Thom and Bristel, now Katniss. They all seemed to think he was a sex-crazed predator. Before he could defend himself, Katniss continued in a low, stern voice. "Don't drag her into your stupid pissing contest with Cato. She's a sweet girl."

Gale snorted. Madge Undersee hadn't struck him as particularly sweet with that ice queen glare.

"Besides, she's too smart for you" said Katniss, leaning back. "She's going to Harvard next Fall."

"What's she doing with the quarterback, then?" said Gale. Cato would've flunked out of Groton Prep on his first day of freshman year if his family hadn't paid for half the buildings on campus. Gale might not be bright enough for Harvard, but at least he'd earned his place at Groton, instead of having it bought for him. He was a scholarship kid and damn proud of it.

* * *

The boathouse was jampacked with thrashing bodies. Sitting in the prow of one of the school skiff's, Gale breathed in the old, familiar smell of sweat and beer. Thom and Johanna rocked the boat with their wild, arm-flailing, hip-jerking dancing. "You're going to tip us," Delly yelled at them over the music.

"That's the point!" Thom yelled back at her. He was wasted before the party even kicked in. Gale, however, was taking things slow tonight, nursing a mild buzz, content to watch for now. He scanned the crowd for potential dance partners. There were plenty of girls to chose from. None of them was what he was looking for. He caught a glimpse of Bristel by the keg, elbowing his way to the front of the line, but then his eye was drawn to a flash of blonde. He did a double take, surprised to find Madge Undersee standing alone against the wall. Still wearing her school uniform, she made a stark contrast against everyone else in their colorful civilian clothes.

Duran Duran's _Hungry Like the Wolf_ blasted from the sound system. _Woman, you want me, give me a sign, and catch my breathing even closer behind_. Madge drummed one hand against her thigh, bobbing her blonde head to the beat, lost in a world of her own.

"Hey, where you going?" asked Thom when Gale stood.

"Refill," he said, though his cup was still half full. Thom glanced towards the keg, spotted Madge Undersee, and turned back to Gale, who'd already leapt over the side of the skiff onto the dock.

"I'm watching you, Hawthorne," Thom called after him. Gale brushed him off with an over-the-shoulder wave and dove into the crowd, guided by Duran Duran. _I'm on the hunt after you. Smell like I sound, lost in the crowd, and I'm hungry like the wolf._ He beat his way through the chaos to Madge Undersee's quiet corner of the boathouse. When he reached her, her blue eyes flicked over to him and the shadow of a scowl passed over her lips. She didn't say hello, didn't acknowledge his presence in any other way, but Gale wasn't offended. He leaned against the wall beside her and waited for her to speak first. He didn't have to wait for long.

"I'm here with my boyfriend," she said, still refusing to look at him. Gale only had to search the boathouse for a second to locate Cato, flanked by the entire football team. He had his arm around a wiry, dark-haired girl's waist. The girl's name was Clove. She had a reputation for promiscuity, not that he'd ever tried her out. She was above slumming with the scholarship kids.

"Does he know that?" said Gale, turning back to Madge. She didn't answer, but her scowl became more than a shadow, and he knew she'd heard. After another minute, she tore her eyes from Cato and Clove and finally faced him.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"Nothing," he said.

"Then go away," she said, looking back out at the crowd.

Gale stayed rooted to his spot. "You got a mirror?" he asked.

"Why, you want to check your make-up?"

He took a crinkled baggie of white powder from the back pocket of his jeans and shook it in front of her face. Madge rolled her eyes, but snapped open her purse all the same. She thrust a little, pink pocket mirror at him.

"Hold it for me," he said, expecting her to refuse. Instead, she flipped the pocket mirror open and held it steady while he dumped out two lines of powder onto the glass. He rolled his last dollar into a funnel, placed one end to his nostril and the other to the end of one of the white lines, which he snorted straight in one go. Then he took the mirror and held out the dollar. Madge's lips were twisted in disgust and he laughed.

"Come on, it's a party," he said. "I swear it's pure."

She glanced again at her boyfriend, now dancing with Clove, and her expression hardened. She popped open her purse again with more force than was required, took out a crisp five dollar bill, and rolled her own snort tube. Of course she didn't want to share with a scholarship kid. He wanted to tell her that poverty wasn't contagious, but then she bent her head to the mirror, her soft curls brushing across his knuckles. She took the hit with all the grace of a European duchess. Clearly, she'd done this before. He was mildly impressed.

"I never introduced myself," he said. "The name's-"

"Gale Hawthorne," she finished for him. "I know who you are. We have Latin together."

"You've noticed me, then?" he said, a cocky grin stretching across his lips.

"You snore," she said. "It's hard not to notice you."

"Yeah, well," he said with a shrug, his ego slightly bruised. "Latin's a dead language. It's hard to stay awake." He was wide awake now. He drained the rest of his beer to mask the bitter taste of the cocaine drip and checked her out over the rim of his cup. "Nice outfit, by the way," he said.

"There wasn't time to change," said Madge, sniffing a little, whether from offence or the cocaine, he didn't know. "I didn't plan on coming to this."

If she was offended, he hadn't meant to insult her. His compliment was genuine. She wasn't wearing the black tights that went with the dress code and, somehow, that made all of the difference. His eyes travelled up her bare legs and got stuck at the hem of her plaid skirt. The contrast between the dark fabric and her creamy white thighs was hypnotizing. Forget about Princess Leia in the metal bikini. Madge Undersee in just her school uniform was out of this world. There was a spot of white dust on the tip of her nose that he wanted to lick off, but he felt Thom, true to his threat, watching them from the skiff.

Madge had her eyes on Cato and Clove again. Abruptly, she whipped her around and said, "He dragged me to this thing, you know. Our Latin midterm is on Monday and I'd planned on studying-"

"Wait, what?" said Gale. "We've got a midterm Monday?"

"I think that's what Professor Heavensbee said, but it's hard to hear sometimes over your snoring," she said, giving him a teasing smile to soften the jab. Gale covered his face with his hands and let out a miserable groan.

"That's it, I'm toast," he said, his words muffled. Then he raised his head, going from defeated to determined in less than a second. "I've got to go. I've got to study. How much of the grade is our midterm worth? Will we have to translate any Catullus? What about-?"

Madge burst out laughing. Soon, she was shaking so hard she collapsed against the wall to keep from falling over.

"What?" said Gale, miffed. He didn't like being laughed at. Especially not by a yuppie like her.

"Your face," she managed to force out, gasping for air.

"What about my face?"

"You'd have to see it to understand." She sobered some. The bright blue of her irises were almost totally eclipsed by her pupils. "I could help you study tomorrow," she said.

Gale relaxed his shoulders. Thom was dancing with both Delly and Johanna now, but Katniss had taken over the watch. She locked eyes with him over the crowd and gave her head a little shake. Gale tossed her a smirk, foreshadowing trouble, before turning back to Madge and accepting her oh-so generous offer.

* * *

For a while, Madge quizzed him on Latin prefixes, but then somehow they started talking about the _Iliad_. "I've always been a little in love with Hector," she admitted. It was cute, and kind of weird, that she had a crush on a dead Trojan prince. Most girls fell in love with Harrison Ford or Freddie Mercury. He mentioned that out loud and, bam, they were arguing over which Queen song was better. "Bohemian Rhapsody, no contest," said Madge. He stood firmly by We Are the Champions.

At that point, they did two more lines and leapt straight into President Reagan's war on drugs. "Half the suits in Washington are on crack," said Madge. "You should hear some of the stories my father tells." So, of course, Gale asked her to tell some of her father's stories. He'd always known politicians were dirty, but the things Madge told him were downright filthy, things that made Luke Skywalker kissing his sister seem respectable by comparison.

"He did what with a what?" said Gale, unsure whether to laugh, or be sick, or move straight to Canada.

"Don't make me repeat it," said Madge.

"You should write a book about all of this," he said. "You could really blow the roof off the White House."

Her expression turned suddenly pensive. "That's not the plan," she said.

"What plan?" asked Gale.

Before she could answer, the alarm went up. "The Eagle is coming," Thom's bellow carried over the music, and the laughing, and the shrieking. "Run for your lives!"

The Eagle, codename for Headmistress Coin, was more cold, more vindictive, more punitive than the worst of Catholic nuns. Absolute terror of their headmistress was the one thing all Groton students had in common. The party became a stampede of panicked, drunken stumblers. Legs and fists and elbows flew as people in back tried to fight their way through the solid wall of bodies congested in the doorway. Gale pressed Madge against the wall and stepped in front of her to act as shield against the maddened masses, while he searched for another way out. He couldn't afford any more demerits on his record.

He heard a splash and turned just in time to see Thom 's head break the surface of the water., from where he was waving up at Johanna and Delly, urging them to abandon ship. "This way," said Gale, grabbing Madge's hand.

"The door's that way!" she cried. He didn't waste any breath explaining to her that there wasn't a chance in hell they'd get through the door in time. Flashlight beams broke through the cracks in the boathouse walls. The Eagle and her army were close.

They were almost to the end of the dock when Madge's sweaty hand slipped from his grasp. As he was turning around to find her again, something hard and bony slammed into his face. Blood filled his mouth, but before he registered the pain, he heard someone calling his name. He followed the sound and saw Madge, caught up in the mob, being swept further and further away.

"Gale!" she screamed, reaching out to him, her blue eyes wide with horror. Without thinking, he leapt forward, throwing his full weight against the people separating him from Madge. When he was close to her, he grabbed her by the forearms and tore her free from the tidal wave of escapees. She crashed into him, her arms locked around his waist, her face hidden against his chest. For a moment, the rush and the noise fell away. He held her close, afraid of losing her again.

"We've got to go," he finally said, remembering himself. Madge pulled back, but she kept such a tight grip on his hand. He soon lost all blood circulation to his fingers. They stopped short at the edge of the dock.

"What now?" asked Madge.

There wasn't time for questions. The Eagle had landed an they only had one way out. Hand in hand with Madge Undersee, he jumped, bringing her with him. It was a warm night for mid-October, but the water was still glacially cold. Luckily he had about a gram of coke in his system to keep him warm. He struck out across the black lake, glancing back every few strokes to make sure that Madge was still with him.

Gale reached the opposite shore first. He knelt on the bank to pull her safely to shore. "You….You're...c….cr...crazy," she said, shivering fiercely, her lips blue. He was about to point out that he'd just saved both of them from a month's worth of detention, or more likely expulsion in his case, when Coin's voice cut clear across the black water. "Search the shore," she ordered.

"Come on," said Gale. "We can sneak around them through the woods. I know a shortcut to the dorms."

Madge looked back to the boathouse, where the unfortunate ones who hadn't escaped were being rounded up like cattle for the slaughter, then she looked to the dark, forbidding woods, and then finally she turned her eyes back to him.

"If you get us lost, I swear to God-"

"I won't," said Gale. "Scout's honor." There wasn't time to tell her that he, Thom, and Bristel had spent more hours in the woods than they had in the school. Already the staff's flashlight beams were moving dangerously near. Madge gave his hand a squeeze, her decision apparently made. He was cold, and wet, and on the run, but he still noted that she hadn't once asked about her boyfriend since the raid began.

* * *

They didn't get lost. Nor did they make it to the dormitories. Coin wasn't playing games tonight. The grounds were crawling with faculty, and staff, and even a dozen or so of kiss-ass turn led to another dead end. For the first time in three years, all of Gale's secret paths failed him. After an hour of stumbling through the woods, hiding under bushes, and dodging flashlight beams, he decided to throw caution to the wind. Stealth wasn't working. The only thing left to do was make a straight and speedy shot across the main campus and pray for a miracle.

They'd just set foot on the quad when the whole mathematics department charged out from behind the library, hot on the heels of none other than Thom and Johanna, who were shouting dirty limericks over their shoulders at the huffing and puffing old farts. Gale couldn't keep from laughing, but then Madge elbowed him in the ribs, and he realized they were standing directly in the path of the chase.

"Over here," she said, already sprinting to a low, red-roofed building nearby. Really, it was more of a hut compared to Halls on either side of it. Gale passed it every day, but he'd never been inside.

"It'll be locked," he said, as she reached for the door. To his surprise, it swung open with just the faintest creak of protest. Madge grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. As soon as the door closed behind them, they heard feet pounding the grass on the other side.

Johanna's voice passed close by. "There was once a fellow McSweeney, who spilled some gin on his weeney. Just to be couth, he added vermouth-"

"Then slipped his girlfriend a martini!" Thom finished for her. Gale let out half a laugh, before Madge clapped her hand over his mouth. She was breathing hard, her ear pressed to the door. He could see her clearly now in the warm, yellow glow spilling through the windows from the path lights outside. Her blue blazer was open and the white, button-down shirt underneath, wet and semi-transparent, clung to her skin. The sheer fact that a girl like her wasn't wearing a bra was almost more arousing than the view itself.

Almost, but not quite. Her nipples were dark, nearly purple, from the cold. Gale prided himself on having an inexhaustible imagination. While they waited for the coast to clear, he put it to good work, coming up with a thousand and one ways he'd like to warm her up. Clearly, she wasn't aware of just how much he could see. He knew it was rude to stare, like he was a ten year old boy seeing his first pair of boobs. There wasn't anything particularly miraculous about Madge Undersee's rack. She was smaller than he preferred. He blamed his current enthrallment on the thrill of the chase, as by now, the effects of the booze and the drugs had burnt out.

"I think they're gone," whispered Madge, lowering her hand from his mouth. Shivering still, she closed her blazer.

Gale cleared his throat and looked around, anywhere but at her. They were in a low-ceilinged room that was more like a short hallway lined with doors. "What is this place?" he asked, in no hurry now to return to his dorm. _It's better if we wait it out_ , he told himself, refusing to admit he had any ulterior motives.

"The music building," said Madge, making her way to one of the doors. Gale followed her through into a pocket-sized room almost too small for the grand piano housed within. "Professor Abernathy leaves it unlocked for me," she continued, running her fingers lovingly over the closed keyboard. "I like to practice here sometimes at night, when no one else is around. He caught me freshman year trying to sneak in." She glanced over her shoulder at Gale, some secret shining in her eyes.

"I didn't know you were in the music program," he said.

"I'm not," she said. "It's not part of the plan."

"What plan?" he asked, picking up where they were so rudely interrupted by the Eagle's attack.

Madge shrugged. "Harvard, and then senator, and then first woman president of the United States," she said dully. "That's been the plan since before I was born."

"Your father's plan," said Gale. She nodded. "Do you want to be Mrs. President?"

"No," she admitted. "I want to be Beethoven, but Undersees have been in politics for over a century. I've got to uphold the family legacy."

Gale was suddenly grateful for his own family from poor, midwestern farm stock. His parents had never pressured him to do anything he didn't want to do. He was the first Hawthorne bound for college and they were proud of him, regardless what he chose to do with his life. If he wanted to drop out of Groton now and take over the farm, or if he decided to run off to Hollywood to become a movie star, or if he declared tomorrow that he was going to be the next Beethoven, they would support him in any way possible.

Since his very first day at Groton, he'd resented the yuppies with their old money and pretensions, but until now, he'd never considered the price of having an important last name. It meant that your life wasn't your own, your dreams inconsequential. "Play me something," he said, perching on one end of the bench and patting the empty space beside him.

"I can't," said Madge. "I never play for an audience."

"Just one song."

"No."

"Oh, come on," he said, lifting open the keyboard lid. "Pretend I'm not here."

Madge sat with a sigh. Her hands hovered over the ivory keys. "I'm not very good," she warned him. "It's been a long time since I had chance to practice."

"Well, I'm not an expert," said Gale. "Even if you are awful, I won't know the difference."

She stared at the keys for another second, deep in thought, a nervous crease between her brows, but as soon as she began to play, the crease smoothed out. That tempered light in her eyes blossomed blindingly bright. He saw her for the first time. Not as a stuck-up yuppie. Not as Cato's girlfriend. Not as Beethoven, either. Her passion spilled into the music, engulfing him. She seemed to forget about him, to forget about everything that wasn't the music. Her head tilted at an angle and his eyes were drawn to the graceful arc of her neck, the way her damp hair curled behind her ear. Before he knew what he was doing, Gale leaned in and pressed his lips to her neck.

The music stopped immediately. Madge leapt to her feet.

"Sorry," Gale spluttered, remembering himself in the silence. His friends were right about him. He had no self-control, no goddamn sense. He shouldn't have pursued Madge Undersee. _Don't drag her into your stupid pissing contest with Cato,_ Katniss' admonishment flitted across his mind, but Cato had nothing to do with what he'd just done and that terrified him.

"I didn't mean to...I shouldn't have…" He'd lost his cool, something that hadn't happened in a long time. He was Gale Hawthorne, for crying out loud. He was the one who made girls blush and stutter, not the other way around.

"It's alright," said Madge, moving towards him. She stopped when her knees brushed against his and looked down at him through her white-blonde eyelashes. Her blazer had fallen open again. Only this time she seemed to be aware of it. "You can kiss me if you wa-"

Gale didn't let her finish. Oh God, did he want to kiss her, more than he'd ever wanted to kiss anyone. He curled his hand around the back of her neck and brought her mouth, open mid-word, down to his. She tasted like beer and lake water. Her lips moved like music. When she fell into his lap, he thanked God for the first time in years. When she started rocking against him, her skirt rising further up her thighs with each backwards slide, Gale entered a state of divine rapture, praying that her underwear was a matching set. It was probably too much to hope for that she'd forgone both bra and panties.

Then she drew away, frowning a little, and said, "You can touch me, you know," and he realized he was just sitting under her like a hard, wooden bench. Never before had a girl needed to direct him. He was so lost in her, he forgot himself. If you'd told him then that he had arms, and hands, and lips of his own, he wouldn't have believed it.

"I can't," he said. Madge's frown deepened. She looked at once disappointed, irritated, and embarrassed. He hadn't meant to make her feel any of those things and rushed on to explain. "I came after you to piss off your boyfriend," he blurted, only making things worse. Madge slid off of his lap, back onto the piano bench.

"Yeah, I know," she said. Of course she did. She was smarter than him. She was Harvard bound. She was…

"But I like you," he said. "I _really_ like you. I want to do this the right way."

Madge looked at him, her chin resting on her shoulder. "The right way?" she said, one eyebrow raised.

"I want to date you. I want to take you to shitty movies and hold hands in the dark. I want to take you out to dinner and talk over stale breadsticks and buy you jewelry that's going to turn your skin green, because that's about all I can afford. I want to meet your friends and I want you to meet mine, even if they're all nutjobs. I want-"

Madge cut him off with a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then she was on her feet and moving to the door. Gale stayed frozen in place, confused. He felt like an idiot for rambling like an idiot.

"I'm breaking up with Cato in the morning," she said, pausing a moment in the doorway to smile back at him. "Meet me for breakfast afterwards?"

"It's a date," said Gale, his grin as cliche as the words themselves. Madge Undersee had most definitely stolen his cool, but it was her's for as long as she wanted it.


	4. A Girl and Her Dog (1500s)

**Translation Guide** (only for words/phrases not translate in-text):

Frère jumeau- twin brother

 _Belle fille_ \- step daughter

 _Belle mère_ \- stepmother

 _Mon Dieu_ \- My God!

 _Comtesse_ \- Countess

* * *

Toulouse, France

1509

Before dawn broke, Marguerite set out to make her escape. She'd told no one of her plans, not even her _frère jumeau_. She'd left a note telling him not to worry. By the time he read it, she hoped to already be in Paris, far away from her papa and new _belle-mère_. Mama had been dead less than a year and already her papa was remarried to the Lady Felice, affectionately known as Effie. In the privacy of her mind, Marguerite called her _le Paon Pompeuse_ , the Pompous Peacock, for the way she paraded about the château in her brightly colored dresses as if she owned the place, as if she belonged.

It was unforgivable that her papa had married anyone at all, let alone that horrible, vain woman. Marguerite hadn't spoken a word to him or _le Paon Pompeuse_ since the wedding a fortnight ago. She hoped never talk to either of them again. The main gate was closed and guarded, but there were secret ways in and out of the château that only she and Peeta knew about. She was hurrying to one of them now, her satchel hidden under the folds of her cloak, when she heard voices crying out her name.

Marguerite paused, searching frantically for somewhere to hide. Her gaze lit on a nearby stone outbuilding and she rushed towards it. As soon as she pried open the door, she was assaulted by a pungent stench. The voices were drawing near, so she wrinkled her nose against the smell and entered what she now recognized as the kennel. Keeping her back against the cold wall, she retreated inch by inch from the door, stepping carefully over the sleeping dogs. If one of them woke, its barking would rouse the others and she'd surely be found.

"Lady Marguerite," someone called from just outside the kennel. Distracted by the nearness of her searchers, she forgot to watch her step and tripped over what she at first thought was a dog, but soon discovered was actually a boy when he said, " _Putain!_ Who's there?"

Marguerite dropped down. She clamped her hand over his mouth and hissed, "Quiet."

* * *

The kennel was the warmest place in the château. Gaël often slept with the dogs in winter, instead of the drafty servants' hall. Sometimes, he even dreamed dog dreams. Tonight he was chasing a young hart through the dappled forest. His stomach gave an almighty growl in hungry anticipation.

Then he woke in pain. " _Putin!_ " he cursed, squinting at the darkness. "Who's there?"

"Quiet," a girl hissed. A heavy weight fell onto his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even breathe. Outside, he heard a chorus of voices crying a single name. "Lady Marguerite! Lady Marguerite!"

Lady Marguerite. Or as his mother called her, _le petite dame du château,_ the little lady of the castle. Gaël had watched her all her life, always from afar. She'd never spared a glance for him, yet now it seemed she meant to kill him. Her bony knees dug into his ribs. His lungs screamed for air.

Even once the search party moved on, Marguerite remained frozen, until the boy's teeth sunk into her hand. With a yelp, she tumbled off of him. "You bit me," she whispered crossly, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest.

"I couldn't breathe," he said. Marguerite couldn't argue that he had the right to preserve his own life, still she was annoyed. As the Duke's daughter, she wasn't accustomed to being bitten. She could have him flogged if she liked. As tempted as she was, she had not the time to waste. She scrambled to her feet and began edging along the wall again.

Gaël was not supposed to speak to her, yet could not stop himself from asking, "Where are you going, _Mademoiselle_?"

"Paris," she answered briskly.

"Alone?" he asked as he stood.

"Yes."

"That is a far way to travel, Mademoiselle," he said, trailing after her. He moved with ease over the sleeping dogs, his ears attune to the soft sighs and wheezes of their deep slumber, whereas she was forced to tiptoe and stumble.

"Yes it is," she said. "All the more reason I should be on my way."

"You cannot go to Paris on your own," said Gaël. She was the _petite dame du château._ She knew nothing of the world beyond the walls of her father's palace. He'd seen her cry over scraped knees and thorn pricks. The road to Paris was littered with much greater dangers. It was no place for a sheltered girl of eight. At ten, he considered himself something of an authority on the world at large.

Marguerite bristled at being told by a peasant boy what she could not do. "I will do as I like," she said.

"You will get lost," he said.

"I have a map." One she'd stolen from her papa's collection. It was out-dated. The geography of France had changed much in the past century, but she assumed the rivers and forests were the same. She was just reaching for the door, when the boy squeezed between her and the exit.

"If your father discovers that I allowed you to-"

"He will not know, if you keep silent," said Marguerite.

"I'll scream," he threatened.

"Then I will have your tongue cut out."

"Not before it's too late," said Gaël, knowing he'd won. Her threats were empty. His were not. Marguerite fumed silently a moment. Who did this boy think he was? He had no right to keep her where she did not wish to be.

"Why won't you just let me go?" she finally said. Gaël contemplated how best to answer. "Well?" she demanded, also unused to waiting.

"Because you will not survive a minute out there," he said truthfully. Marguerite's shoulders sagged under the bluntness of his words and the weight of her own foolishness. If she could not even escape from one stubborn peasant boy, how could she hope to make it all the way to Paris? She was only a child. A child who missed her mother. Tears sprung to her eyes and she was glad for the darkness.

"Why do you wish to leave?" asked Gaël. The question was highly impertinent, but it had been so long since anyone asked her how she felt about anything, the answer leapt from her tongue.

"She is not my mother," hissed Marguerite. "She never will be, no matter how she pretends. I hate her. I do not want to ever see her again."

Gaël did not need to ask of who she meant. Though he'd never spoken to the deceased lady of the château, he had cried for her when she died and remembered her gentle smile and kind eyes. He remembered how his own heart ached at the loss of his father, whose life was cut short by a swift and merciless fever three years past. His mother had sworn never to remarry. To provide for Gaël and his three siblings, she'd taken a laundress position in the Duke's household. If she'd chosen to wed another man instead, Gaël would certainly have hated him just as much as the _petite dame du château_ hated her new _belle mère_.

"I liked your mother," he said. "She was very beautiful."

"She was more than that," sniffled Marguerite. "She was everything and now no one will so much as speak her name. They act like she never lived."

"You can talk about her to me, if you wish," said Gaël.

So that is what Marguerite did. Every thought she'd had since her mother's passing, she shared with the boy and he listened, which was all she really wanted from anyone. To him, she found she could speak freely. In his attentive silence, she felt he understood her when no one else did.

* * *

From that day forth, Gaël and Marguerite became inseparable. She dubbed him _le_ _chien garçon,_ the dog boy. His new title spread throughout the château. Wherever _le petite dame du_ _château_ went, her faithful companion was never far behind.

"It is not proper for a noble girl to run wild with that _chien_ _garçon_ ," Lady Effie often told her husband, but the Duke saw no harm in his daughter's friendship.

"Perhaps it is not proper," he said to his wife. "But he makes her happy." And his daughter's happiness made him happy. It was simple as that.

"Dogs bite," Lady Effie reminded him. "Even if they are well-trained. Remember that, _Monseigneur_." She spoke deep from the heart, though her voice was light as air, having once been bitten herself, and long since learned to conceal the scars.

* * *

For Peeta's and Marguerite's twelfth birthday, the Duke spared no expense. He hired the best musicians and jesters from all corners of Europe for tonight's celebration. He paid a small fortune on an emerald-studded rapier for Peeta and a beautiful parisian dress, a deep forest green with an overlay of golden leaves, for Marguerite. She studied her reflection in the foggy glass of the mirror. It truly was a the most stunning gown she'd ever seen, fit for a queen, and she hated it. She felt like a child playing dress up.

"Why can't I have a sword, too?" she said. Peeta and Gaël lay sprawled on the hearth rug, playing their third round of Nine Man's Morris.

"Because you're a girl," said Peeta.

"Joan of Arc was a girl," said Marguerite, glaring down at her twin brother. "She had a sword."

Gaël chuckled. He glanced up from the game, giving her that characteristic crooked smirk of his. "Oui, she did, and look how well it turned out for her. If a woman is given a sword, she must be burned at the stake."

Marguerite rolled her eyes, but said nothing. It was unpatriotic to make jokes about one of France's chief war heros. Once, she would've been appalled by his bawdiness. No longer. Her ears were now accustomed to his wry sarcasm.

"It's a pretty dress," said Peeta, trying to console her. A pretty dress for a pretty girl. _And I am not a pretty girl,_ thought Marguerite. She had the front teeth of a horse, the spindly legs of a fawn, and hair like the feathers of a newborn chick. Her face had yet to grow into her over-sized, olive green eyes and her skin was speckled from the long summer days, now fading to Autumn. At least with a sword, she might look intriguing, rather than just silly.

Gaël hated to see her frowning on her birthday. He hated to see her frown any day. "I have a gift for you both," he said, rising from his comfortable place by the fire. "Come, I want to give it to you before the feast."

"We aren't finished with our game," said Peeta.

"It's your birthday," said Gaël with a shrug. "You win."

* * *

"Close your eyes," said Gaël, halfway across the courtyard. Marguerite did as she was told without fuss. Peeta, though he trusted the servant boy nearly as much as his sister, wasn't in the habit of being led blind. "Go on," urged Gaël. Once Peeta reluctantly closed his eyes, Gaël took hold of Marguerite's hand, and she took hold of Peeta's.

"Where are you taking us?" asked Peeta.

"You will see. Don't open your eyes yet."

Marguerite did not need to open her eyes to know where Gaël had brought them. She recognized the smell of dogs as soon as it hit her nose. It was a smell she'd become fond of, a smell that always clung to Gaël, even after washing day. Now that he was apprenticed to Boggs, the kennel master, he spent more time with the dogs than ever.

"You may look now," said Gaël, bringing the three of them to a halt. Marguerite's eyelids flew open. A delighted squeal escaped her lips at the sight of a litter of mastiff puppies rolling around at her feet in the muddy yard. There were five of them, all perfectly identical, no more than a few weeks old and still clumsy on their feet.

"They're darling," said Marguerite, crouching down and offering her hand to one of the pups. It's cold, wet nose tickled her palm and she giggled.

"Two of them are yours," said Gaël, pleased by her reaction. There was no longer the faintest hint of a frown on her freckled face. Peeta fought to contain his enthusiasm. As a marquis, and his father's only heir, he'd lately adopted a feigned sense of stoicism, for which Marguerite and Gaël mercilessly teased him, but when one of the puppies rolled over his feet, he broke.

"This one is mine," he declared, grinning fondly at the little beast now nipping at his ankles. Marguerite needed more time to chose. It seemed an impossible task. Forgetting all about her new dress, she lay on her back in the mud and let the eager newborns trample over her. A hunting dog of her very own! It was a better gift than a sword, better than a thousand Parisian gowns. She wanted to claim all of them for herself. How did Gaël expect her to chose?

But then, the runt of the litter settled on her chest. Its head fit perfectly in the space between her chin and collarbone. She cradled the puny pup in her arms and smiled up at Gaël.

"I think he has claimed you, _Mademoiselle,_ " said Gaël, smiling back at her.

"Then I shall name him after you," she teased.

* * *

The three of them lost track of time frollicking with the puppies. It was Peeta who finally remembered they had a feast to attend. Marguerite was loathe to part with the dogs, but even more unwilling to part with Gaël. He was not invited to the celebration, of course. _Le Paon_ _Pompeuse_ forbid it. "His stench will offend our guests," she'd said.

When Peeta and Marguerite returned to the château, _Le Paon_ was waiting for them. She took one horrified look at her _belle fille_ , mud spattered from head to foot, and cried out, " _Mon Dieu!_ You have ruined your new dress!" She grabbed Marguerite's arm and whisked her away to change, admonishing the young girl every step of the way. "That was handsewn by Cinna himself," she said. "Only the queen is so honored,yet you treat your gift like a rag. Impossible girl. I expect this was your precious _chien_ _garçon's_ doing."

"No, _Madame_ ," said Marguerite. "The fault was all mine."

There was nothing _Madame_ Effie could do, but sigh and shake her head. The boy was a nuisance. "This behavior cannot go on forever," she said, speaking against her better judgement. The Duke had made it clear early on that his children were in no way her own. Only she'd never been one to muffle her opinions. "You will marry someday and leave this place. Your dog will not go with you then."

Marguerite halted. "He will if I ask him," she said impetuously, but certain.

"No, _ma fille_ ," said Effie. "Soon you will be a woman and everything will change."

 _Ma fille_. My daughter. Marguerite boiled with rage. "You are not my mother," she said, blue eyes flashing like steel. "You have no children, _Madame_."

The words struck Effie as true and deep as any blade. That she was barren was no secret. Without children, she was nothing, a mere placeholder. The Duke had no need of her. Neither did his children from his dead first wife, who she could never live up to. Unable to find a response in words, she gave Marguerite a slap on each cheek, leaving two red handprints and a small cut from her ring as evidence of the crime.

"Change your clothes," she snapped, before turning on her heels and fleeing down the corridor, her skirts swishing like the ruffled feathers of a peacock.

* * *

The first half of _Madame_ Effie's prediction came to pass only three months later. Marguerite became a woman.

Peeta was gone to Paris with their father and once again Marguerite was left behind to stew in resentment and work on her embroidery. She jabbed the needle through the cloth without any thought to pattern. Her eyes kept sliding back to the foggy-paned window, beaten by a silver sheet of rain. Her heart swelled with longing to be out there on the road with her twin. The injustice of it all! She and Peeta had come into the world together, yet only he was allowed to experience it. At times like these, she almost hated him, though it wasn't his fault he'd been born the son and heir.

The needle sunk into her leg, just above the knee, and she let out a hiss of pain. She looked down to see if she'd torn a hole in her dress and saw only red. Her lap was a pool of blood. For a moment, her mind removed from her body from shock, she watched the crimson stain spread across the lavender silk of her skirt. _I'm dying_ , she thought, oddly dispassionate. Then the fear hit. She was dying. Peeta and her father were far away. Her mother was a cold corpse. Bleeding out or not, she refused to go to _Madame_ Effie, who she'd avoided like the plague since her birthday.

There was only person she could turn to in this, her final hour.

* * *

Gaël was numb to the bone. He stepped in from the icy rain and hurried across the kitchen to the warmth of the cook fire. Thankfully, Sae wasn't there or she'd have chased him out, scolding him for tracking water across her freshly scrubbed floors. No sooner did he raise his frozen hands to the flames, when Marguerite flew into the room. She was pale as a sheet, her eyes round as the moon. Gaël's heart immediately began to race.

"Has something happened to Peeta?" he asked, fearing the worst. Perhaps the Duke and his son had encountered trouble on the road. There were all sorts of brigands between Toulouse and Paris.

"No," choked Marguerite. "I...I...There is something terribly wrong with me." She gestured downwards. Only then did Gaël notice her blood-stained skirt. His heart nearly burst from his chest, thinking she'd been stabbed, but soon his senses returned to him. He was torn between laughter and a blush.

"You're not dying," he told her. Marguerite grabbed a fistful of her skirt and shook it at him.

"I am," she insisted, forgetting her fear in favor of annoyance at the way he was struggling against a grin. "I'm bleeding to death right before your eyes. Or have you gone suddenly blind?"

"It's only your…" Gaël trailed off, the blush winning out over the laughter. This was not a conversation he'd ever expected to have. Lady Marguerite was intelligent beyond her years when it came to many things. He often forgot how little she knew of life.

"My what?" she demanded, her voice spiked with fright.

Gaël rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to look at the blood. For the first time, he found himself at a loss for words to give her. Finally, he repeated, "You are not dying. I promise."

Marguerite remained unconvinced. She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her no opportunity. "Come with me," he said. "I know someone who can help you better than I."

* * *

Hazelle was not surprised when her son appeared with _le petite dame du château_ in tow. Hazelle was not surprised by anything. She took one look at the girl's bloody skirt and her son's flushed face, and understand the situation at hand. Before Gaël could utter so much as a single word, she said to him, "Bring us some spiced goat's milk." As soon as he was gone, she sat Marguerite down and gently explained to the poor child, who had no mother of her own to explain such things, where the blood came from and what it meant.

Marguerite hung on to the woman's every word, her expression shifting between disgust and mystification. "There is no need to be frightened," Hazelle assured her. "Or ashamed. For women, blood is as common as water. In time, you will learn to live with it."

"You mean this will happen again?" asked Marguerite, scowling at her ruined skirts. Hazelle chuckled.

"Yes, _Mademoiselle."_

"And there is nothing to be done about it?" said the girl.

"I am afraid not," said Hazelle.

"So then, I must bleed?"

"We all must bleed, child," said Hazelle, placing her work worn hand over Marguerite's. "Without blood, without the pain and the mess, there can be no life. Men believe that blood can only mean death, but women know better."

Later that night, as Marguerite lay awake in bed, pondering all that Gaël's mother had told her, she did not feel like a woman. She only felt a deep, aching pain in her stomach and between her legs. She could not shake the sense that she was dying, though she now knew such wasn't the case.

* * *

The second half of _Madame_ Effie's prediction happened slowly over time. Marguerite was a woman, even if she did not feel like one, and everything began to change, though she did not notice. Gaël did. At first, he found the changes merely curious. He watched Marguerite grow into herself bit by bit. Then, one morning as they lay on the riverbank and made pictures in the clouds as they'd done a thousand times before, he realized that somehow, at some undefined point, she had become beautiful.

To him, she'd always been so, only now her inner beauty took shape in outward form. The clouds held less attraction than they once had. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the rosy bloom in her cheeks, the pale swell of her newly developed breasts, the cascade of golden curls against the dewy, green grass.

Like his sister, Peeta was oblivious to the physical changes Marguerite was undergoing, but he noticed the difference in how Gaël looked at her. For many months he said nothing, afraid of ruining the friendship the three of them had shared for so long. Soon, though, he felt required to speak. As Gaël watched Marguerite chase her dog across the courtyard, Peeta watched Gaël.

"You should be careful," he said.

"Of what?" asked Gaël.

"Your feelings towards her."

Gaël tore his eyes away from Marguerite. His gut instinct was to deny that he harbored any feelings besides ones of brotherly affection, but Peeta knew him too well. Better, perhaps, than he knew himself in that moment. "I would never do anything to cause her suffering," said Gaël, to put his friend's mind at ease. He knew who he was, and who she was, and that there could never be anything between them. He knew that someday she would marry a prince, or a lord, a man of importance. He had always known that, but the knowledge had never stung as it did now.

"It is not only her I worry about," said Peeta sadly. "I would not see you suffer, either."

"Then do not look," said Gaël, his gaze travelling again to Marguerite.

* * *

Marguerite could hear the low rumble of the Garonne river from her chamber window. It sang to her, a springtime siren beckoning her to rocky shores after another spat with _Madame_ Effie over proper behavior. She went to the river to be alone, but someone was already there. Gaël was humming the tune he used to calm the dogs, and once or twice, to calm her. Marguerite wanted to listen, but not be seen, so she crouched behind a shrub and peaked between the spider-webbed leaves. He stood, bare in the sunlight, at the river's edge. His back turned to her.

She'd seen him unclothed before. When they were younger, Gaël and Peeta often swam in the Garonne. They stripped down and ran, splashing and laughing, into the cool green waters. She, of course, always kept on her shift, and envied their freedom. Looking at him now, she realized how long ago it'd been since the three of them went swimming together. Much had changed since then. He was no longer a wiry, hollow-chested boy. At seventeen, he was a man, lean-muscled and sturdy. She had not noticed until this moment. The epiphany struck her suddenly, a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky.

For the first time, it felt wrong to look at him. She could not help herself.

* * *

Marguerite was nearing sixteen. By this point in life, most noble girls her age had already spent a season at Court. Effie dropped hints to her husband for weeks. It was time Marguerite went to Paris. "She could stay with her aunt," Effie even suggested. "Comtesse Maesilee." It was the closest she'd come to alluding aloud to her husband's first wife. Marguerite would never consent to go with her detested _belle mere_ and the Duke couldn't bare to spend more than fortnight in Paris, but the Comtesse Maesilee lived there year round. She was rich and widowed, with only one child, a girl named Deloise. She had not seen her niece since her twin sister's funeral and would likely leap at the opportunity to catch up on lost time.

Day by day, Effie wore her husband down. "Marguerite is going to Paris," he declared one morning over breakfast, as if the idea had been his all along.

* * *

"I don't want to go to Paris," fumed Marguerite, pacing across her chamber. "She cannot make me."

"Who?" asked Peeta.

" _Le Paon_ ," she said venomously.

The corners of Peeta's lips pulled down into a mild frown. "You really should not call her that," he said. "She is not the monster you make her out to be."

Marguerite hardly dared believe her ears. Peeta was defending _Le Paon._ " _Madame_ Effie means well," he said. "You've always complained of being left here when Papa and I go. I do not see why you are upset."

"Because she is sending me away!" said Marguerite, stomping her foot like a child.

"That isn't true," said Peeta. "The idea was papa's-"

Marguerite let out a very unladylike snort. Gaël cracked a grin. He stood on the sidelines, watching the siblings fight, having learned long ago it was foolish to intervene. Peeta was not the dangerous one. It was always Marguerite who threw the first punch. Her aim was lacking and she was just as likely to hit a poor bystander as her brother. But what she lacked in skill, she made up for in fury.

She was close to breaking point now. Gaël knew all the shades of red that colored her face in a temper. Perhaps _Madame_ Effie was right and a season in Paris was what Marguerite needed. His own mother thought so. Gaël was uncertain. Who knew what she would become outside of these walls, away from him? She was _le petite dame du château_. Deep in his soul, he did not want her to leave. In Paris, she could not snort, or play in the mud with dogs, or fly into a stubborn rage. She could not be herself, so she would become someone else.

Yet it was unfair to keep her locked up. Her hatred of _Le Paon_ and her long held desire to visit her aunt in Paris, to drink in every drop of the world, were at war. With three words, Gaël knew he could put her at ease. _You should go_ or _You should stay._ His mind went back to the beginning of their friendship. He'd stopped her from leaving once, because it was the right thing to do.

"You should go," he said now, because it was the right thing to do. Her life was out there, not here, with him. He would always be her faithful _chien garçon_ , but she was meant to be so much more than _le petite dame du château._

Marguerite's red-faced anger turned to shock white. "You want me to go?" she said, sounding hurt.

"No," he said. "But you want to go. You have always wanted to go."

"But-"

Gaël held up a hand to silence her. "But we will be here when you return. It is only one season, not forever." Not yet, he silently added.

Marguerite crossed her arms. She glanced back and forth between her two closest companions. They had never given her faulty advice before. Still, the thought of spending so much as one day apart from her friend was agony. Gaël put on his crooked grin and said, "Besides, if you go, you won't have to see _Le Paon_ for three whole months."

"Don't encourage her," said Peeta, shaking his head. Marguerite ignored her twin. It would be wonderful to escape _Madame_ Effie for a while. She made up her mind.

* * *

A light drizzle fell on the morning of Marguerite's departure. Peeta was to escort her to their aunt's. He would stay for a month, before returning home, to his duties as heir, leaving her alone with a woman she barely remembered. Her stomach churned with fear and expectation. The horses were harnessed and ready, trunks packed and loaded, all goodbyes given, except for one. She scanned the gray, misty courtyard for Gaël, expecting him to appear at any moment.

"We must leave now to make it to the inn by nightfall," said Peeta, placing a hand on her arm and gently steering her to the waiting carriage. Marguerite stumbled as she stepped up, her eyes still Peeta closed the carriage door behind him, she pressed her face to the square pane of glass. Her nose slammed against it when the horses lurched forward.

Just before they passed through the gate, she saw Gaël running after them. Suddenly, Marguerite wanted to throw herself from the carriage, but they were picking up speed. She knew not what waited for her at road's end. She thought she knew what she was temporarily leaving behind, but she was mistaken. She didn't know the half of it.

Soon, Gaël fell behind, dropping out of sight once more. He did not stop running, though. He was tempted to follow her all of the way to Paris on foot, alone, without a map.

* * *

 **AN** : This is part one of two. In the next chapter, Effie's backstory is revealed and much, much more:)

 **Hawtsee** & **Ex2See** : Your feedback has been truly inspiring. I'd lost confidence in my writing, but thanks in part to your faithful encouragement, I've got my confidence back and decided to go after a masters in creative writing. So thank you times a million.


	5. For Liberty and Love (1770s)

1777

Pennsylvania

The boys sang as they marched to Brandywine. Come join hand in hand, brave Americans all, and rouse your brave hearts at fair liberty's call; no tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim, or stain with dishonor America's name. They sang through sun and rain, from Delaware to Pennsylvania, on their way to join General Washington's troops. Most of them were green boys who'd never seen or smelled the blood of battle. Hope and dreams of glory carried their treble tunes. Their captain did not sing. Neither did Gale. He hadn't experienced near as many skirmishes as Captain Boggs, but he had fought enough to know the truth of war. There was no glory, no hope, no justice.

Gale was one of the first in his small Maryland town to enlist. At eighteen years old, he had thought himself a man. He ignored his mother's warnings. "I will come home," Gale had promised. She'd heard those words before. Her husband had spoken them over ten years ago. He never returned, instead perishing in the final year of the fight against the French and Indians. Now her eldest son followed in his father's footsteps and there was naught she could do or say to stop him.

Gale wished he had listened to his mother, but it was too late to turn back. How could he return home? Disgraced, a deserter? His neighbors would shun him. The army would hang him. He looked to the lad marching beside him. A boy younger than Rory with a sweet voice, singing, "In freedom we're born and in freedom we'll live." But the boy would not live in freedom. He would die by British fire. Gale had seen the Redcoats. He had fought them. Only two weeks ago, he'd seen his best friend blown to fragments by cannon blast. That was the moment he realized they were doomed, they could not win, they would never be free from tyranny.

Yet here he marched, one foot after the other. He no longer fought for freedom. He fought to keep the promise he'd made to his mother, his brothers, and little Posy. He fought to go home. It was the only way.

* * *

Margaret favored the country house to the one in Philadelphia. She liked walking on grass over pavement. The air was fresh. She could hear the birds, the creek, bees buzzing, cattle lowing from a nearby farm, and the flowers, Heart-Leaved Asters and Forget-Me-Nots, blooming. All she'd known before were the sounds of carts clattering on cobblestones, the racket of human voices, and lately, fights in the street. She had been born in Philadelphia. "A first-generation American," her father called her in the days before the tea was poured into the harbor. Now he reminded her that she was English, her blood was English, her loyalties must be English.

Margaret tried to remember, but she'd never seen England. She didn't know the king overseas, but she knew the Mellark baker's boy. They were friends before the war. When he came home with one less leg than he left with, her father forbade her to visit him. The Mellarks were Patriots. Rebels. Criminals. They made the best strawberry pastries in Philadelphia. One of Margaret's few regrets about country life was that she couldn't eat those pastries anymore. Another was that she hadn't told Peeta goodbye and she might never see him again.

Philadelphia was no longer safe for Loyalists like the Undersees. The city was now the seat of the Second Continental Congress. If you weren't a Patriot, your home was likely to be set ablaze. It happened to the Cartwrights. Everything they owned gone within an hour. Before the rebels lit the fire, they acquisitioned the silver candlesticks, wiped out the larder, and stripped the house of every bit of lead to make bullets. The Cartwrights fled. Shortly after Mr. Undersee decided the time had come to leave as well.

Margaret feared that moving to the country wouldn't be enough. Her mother urged for their return to England or to Florida, where the British retained control. "They'll burn us out like they did the Cartwrights," she often said. "You have a daughter to think about. The only future for her in this country is war." Regardless the war, Margaret did not want to leave. England was not home. The creek and the cows, the rough grass and yellow corn fields, this was home.

* * *

Every man in a general's uniform was rumored to be Mr. Washington. Gale took no notice of all the speculations. He remembered long talks with Thom on their marches. One of their last conversations had been about the famed general.

"I'll meet him someday," said Thom. "Just you wait and see. Before this war's over, I'll shake his hand." Gale no longer cared about meeting General Washington. The man had more important things to do than shake hands with an unranked boy. General Washington would never know Thom's name. He didn't know any of their names. We're just weapons, thought Gale. You don't shake hands with a rifle.

He ate his hardtack in silence and imagined his mother's cooking. He imagined Rory and Vick racing home from the field and Posy crafting a new doll from a dried apple and bits of fabric. He imagined them safe, the way he had left them, and tried not to think how three fortnights had passed with no letter from them. Mail these days was unreliable. The carrier could have been intercepted, killed in crossfire, or been caught in any number of misadventures. His family was safe. Gale had to believe that. If anything happened to them, he'd never forgive himself for not being there to protect them.

* * *

The boom of cannons shook the glass panes in the windows. The battle was too far to be seen, but the sound of rifle fire and the screams of dying men carried clear through the woods, over fields, all the way to Margaret's ears.

"Your mother forbade you to be outside," said her father. Margaret kept her eyes on the distant battle, the one she could not see. She wasn't afraid. The fighting was further away than it sounded. She was safe enough on the porch.

"Do you think they will succeed in taking Philadelphia from the rebels?" said Margaret.

"You have been listening at doors again," said her father. He joined her at the edge of the porch and rested his hands flat against the railing. Margaret didn't apologize for eavesdropping. She knew her father wasn't angry. She was his only child and he spoiled her, never raised his voice, never lost his temper. That was her mother's job. Councils of war are not for a young lady's ears, she often chided. You should not concern yourself with such matters. But how could Margaret not be concerned when battles raged just beyond her backyard?

"Corilanous has enough men to take the city," said Mr. Undersee.

"You don't think he will," said Margaret. She'd overheard him yesterday pleading with General Crane not to underestimate the rebels. They are fighting for their homes, he'd said. They may not have the numbers or the weaponry, but they've more passion than all the king's men combined. Lieutenant Crane accused him of sympathizing with the traitors. Sympathy and respect are not the same had been Mr. Undersee's measured response.

"I do not know, little bird," he said to his daughter. "I am no fortune teller."

"If they do, what will happen to the rebels in Philadelphia?" said Margaret. She thought of the Mellarks. Peeta would not be able to flee the city. His family would not abandon him. Corilanous would show no mercy. She'd heard rumors about the British corporal, how he had put whole towns to the torch, hung soldiers and their families alike. He saw no difference between soldiers and civilians. In his eyes, they were all rebels, and all rebels deserved to die.

Her father did not answer her question. He did not need to. His silence said enough. If Corilanous took the city, he would leave no patriot alive. Their old friends, their neighbors, would be destroyed. They would set fire to Greasy Sae's goods store, the Hob, where just a few weeks ago Margaret had purchased new hair ribbons. She imagined that Haymitch Abernathy would put up quite a fight when they came for him at his inn. Corilanous would put a bayonet through his belly. But what would happen to his niece, Annie? She was such a sweet, soft-spoken girl. Surely they wouldn't harm her too. And what of the Mason family? She remembered a talk she'd had with Johanna, the oldest girl, not very long ago. I wish I'd been born a man, Miss Mason had said, I'd like to kill myself a few redcoats.

If Corilanous took the city, the Undersees would return, but it was not an event that Margaret looked forward to. All of the people she'd known, the people she'd grown up with, would be gone, either dead or fled. They were rebels. They were her friends. She didn't notice the tears sliding down her cheeks until her father brushed one away.

"No harm will come to you," he said. He assumed she was afraid for her own life.

* * *

Hot blood trickled from Gale's ear. He heard nothing but the echo of canons, though the battle was over. How many had died? Too many. Caught between Corilanous' and Howe's men on the Brandywine Bridge, the patriots hadn't stood a chance. Gale didn't remember fleeing the battle, but here he was, stumbling through the dark woods, utterly alone. He didn't remember being stabbed with a bayonet, but the oozing wound was proof it had happened. What had become of Captain Boggs? Had he escaped, or been captured, or was he lying face down in the bloody river? What about the boy, younger than Rory, with the pleasant voice? Would he ever sing again?

Gale knew he should try to find them. There was no moon to light his way, no stars to give him direction. He didn't even know in which direction Washington had retreated. Truthfully, he did not want to find them. Let them think I died. Soon enough, he expected he would be dead. He was cold and he felt no pain, which he knew was not a good sign. Somehow he managed to keep walking, though he couldn't feel his legs. If I can just make it home, he thought, half-mad, delirious, slowly bleeding to death. I promised to come home. He couldn't die here. His family would never know what happened to him.

Gale spotted light in the distance. Candles burning in windows. A house. Did friends or foe reside within? It didn't matter. His knees buckled at the edge of the cleared yard. He could go no further. Whoever lived in the house, he hoped they had the decency to bury him.

* * *

Margaret snuck out onto the porch while her parents slept. All was quiet now, the fighting finished and the animals yet to come out of hiding. A messenger had arrived at dusk to bring word of Corilanous' victory over the rebels. His men were camped along the river now to tend their wounded and recuperate before marching on to the city. We won, Margaret reminded her heavy heart. She felt no joy. Loyalist or Patriot, it made no difference to her. She wanted the suffering on both sides to end. So many had lost so much, their homes, and loved ones, parts of their body and parts of their spirit. How could she chose between her family and friends, friends and neighbors? The place of her birth or the land of her ancestors? Even if she could settle her heart for one or the other, there was naught she could do for either. The war wreaked havoc all around her and she was utterly helpless, utterly useless.

She turned to go inside, when movement caught her eye. A man stood at the edge of the yard with the forest behind him. Margaret took a backwards step. She opened her mouth to call for help, but then she hesitated. The man moved no closer to the house. She watched him sway and knew he would not remain standing for much longer. Heedless of the danger, Margaret leapt over the porch steps and raced towards him. Her first instinct was to catch the man before he fell. She didn't reach him in time.

Margaret dropped to her knees beside the man. He'd fallen facedown. He wore the gray of a rebel soldier and she was glad she hadn't raised the alarm. Her hand trembled over his shoulder. Was he dead? She listened for breath and heard nothing. Perhaps he couldn't breathe. She lowered her hand until it met flesh, still warm, and rolled him onto his back. The man grunted in pain. He was alive, but he wouldn't be for long. It was too dark to see his injuries, but she smelled the blood. If she sent for help then her father would be honor-bound to hand this man over to Corilanous. Then, assuming he survived his wounds, the man would surely be killed. She could leave him here to bleed to death. After all, she wasn't a doctor. She couldn't mend him on her own.

No, she couldn't just leave him. His uniform meant nothing to her. He was someone's son, someone's brother. She had seen too many families ripped apart, and too much suffering, without lifting a hand to stop it. But what should I do? What can I do? The answer came to her from some deep and hidden well of courage within. Save him. She couldn't stop the war. She couldn't rebuild the Cartwrights home or return Peeta Mellark's leg. She couldn't bring the dead back to life or prevent Corilanous from sacking Philadelphia. Perhaps, though, she could save this one man.

Margaret crawled back towards him and was surprised to find that his eyes were open. "Can you walk?" she said. At first he made no sign that he'd heard. Then his voice came, a faint croak in the night.

"No use," he said. "I'm dead."

"Not yet, sir," said Margaret sternly. She stood, looped her arms under his, and tried to lift him. First she needed to get him somewhere safe, somewhere he wouldn't be found. She could figure out the rest from there. The man's weight nearly brought her back down. "I can't do this alone," she told him. "If you wish to live, you must try."

"No use," he said. "Leave me."

Margaret tried to raise him again. "No," she said through clenched teeth. Gale tried to swat at her, but was too weak to lift his arm. Who was this stupid girl who didn't recognize a dead man when she saw one? Was she even real? Or was she his last dream? A stubborn angel come to shatter the peace of his final moments, when all he wanted was to dream of home.

"Get up, you fool," she hissed in his ear. "You must fight. Someone is waiting for you back home."

Gale's head cleared at those words. His mother, his brothers, Posy. They were waiting for him. It wasn't enough to dream of them. He had to fight for them. He had to return. Gale mustered the last of his strength. He clung to the stubborn angel, leaning on her for support. What little remained of his rational thought told him that she was no angel. She didn't have wings. If she did, she could carry him. Instead she made due with whispering encouragements to keep him moving, one shuffled step after the next.

"Only a little farther now," she said. "Nearly there."

Nearly where? Candlelight flickered at the corner of his eyes. She led him away from the house. He wanted to ask why, but couldn't breathe to talk. He felt so light that it was a wonder to him why it was so difficult to lift his feet. His surge of strength left him suddenly. Darkness swooped in. When he fainted, Margaret was dragged down with him.

"Wake up," she said, slapping both his cheeks. "Please wake up." The man did not stir. He was gone again. She put a finger to his neck and felt a pulse, weak but present. She yanked her arm out from under him and grabbed him by the ankles.

"I'm sorry," she muttered again and again, as she dragged his limp body over rocks and dirt. If he lived, she supposed a few bruises wouldn't concern him too greatly. As soon as she was through the barn doors, she collapsed, gasping for air. The easy part was over. Now she had to find a way, and quickly, to keep him from bleeding to death.

* * *

Margaret feared that in the time it took to unearth her mother's medicine box from the hall closet, the unknown soldier would die. She ran back to the barn in the dark, tripping every few steps, spilling blankets across the dewy ground and having to waste more time gathering them up again. Don't be dead, she prayed silently, Don't be dead. She burst into the barn and found him right where she'd left him.

She approached him like a startled rabbit. There was no cause to be afraid of him. He was too weak to hurt her. She was more afraid of hurting him more than he already was. Margaret knelt by him. Carefully, she peeled his blood-soaked shirt from his skin to examine the wound underneath. A gag caught in her throat. Even in the dim lantern light, the gash was horrific to behold. Turning pale, she stared at it. How could she possibly fix him?

She decided that the first step was to wash out the wound. There was no time to waste on squeamishness. Taking a deep breath, she unslung a leather canteen from her shoulder, unscrewed the lid, and poured water onto the wound. Mud and blood gushed out. She used scraps from an old quilt to wipe away as much as she could. It was difficult to see what she was doing in the dim lantern light, but she was afraid to bring in more light in case someone from the house woke and noticed. When the wound was clean enough to see where his skin separated, Margaret sat back on her heels again. What now?

"Needs stitches," the man said. Margaret swallowed a startled scream. She looked from the gash in his lower abdomen to his face. "Thought you'd flown away, angel girl."

Margaret was glad to hear him speak, even if what he spoke made little sense. She opened the medicine box, found the needles and thread, feeling his fevered eyes following every move she made. Her hands shook and she struggled to thread the needle.

"Ever done this before?" said the man.

"No," Margaret answered truthfully. Gale sighed. He'd suspected as much. Then again, he was in no position to be picky.

"Find the edge of the wound," he said. Margaret did as she was told. The task wasn't as simple as he made it sound. She felt blindly, her fingers sliding over slick skin. "Helps if you use your eyes," the man grunted. Margaret didn't want to look at the damage, but forced herself to do so. Just a cut, she told herself. A little cut. To keep from getting sick, she pretended the flaps of skin were nothing more than a tear in a quilt that needed mending. She found the edge of the tear, put her needle to his skin, and froze. Her hands were still shaking. Her fingers were so slippery with blood and sweat, she could barely hold the needle.

"Steady now," said Gale. He fought to keep the darkness at bay. If he slipped into unconsciousness now, the angel girl was likely to poke something that shouldn't be poked. She looked at him with panicked, blue eyes.

"I can't," she whispered. "I don't know what I'm doing. I might kill you."

Gale's weak laugh turned into a powerful cough. A minute passed before he caught his breath. They were wasting time. "I'll die if you don't," he said. His face was gray as old porridge, his breathing shallow and labored, but his gaze was clear now and his pale lips quirked in a tired half-smile. "You can't make things much worse, Miss."

Margaret wasn't so certain. Neither was he, but he trusted the angel girl to do the best she could and that trust shone through his eyes, reminding her to be brave. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes a moment, and willed her hand to be steady. When she opened her eyes again, she quickly poked the needle through his skin before she lost her nerve. Gale let out a hiss through clenched teeth. There was the pain he'd been missing. Pain is good, he told himself. Pain means you are still alive.

"Don't go too deep," he said. "And don't pull too tight. Just enough to-" The needle went in the other side and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out.

"No more talking," said Margaret. She went back to pretending that his body was a quilt. It was easier to do when he did not talk. "And don't scream.

Gale wanted to ask who she was afraid might hear, but the pain was too much. He couldn't hold the darkness back any longer. This time he welcomed it. Whether or not he woke again all depended on the angel girl.

* * *

The next day, Margaret had no opportunity to visit the soldier. "There might be rebels about," warned Mrs. Undersee. She forbade her daughter to leave the house and kept close watch on her throughout the day. Margaret waited until night. She heard her parents climb the stairs to their bedroom, and then she waited more, until her candle burned to half wick and her father's snores rumbled down the hall. She could not risk being spotted. She was a wretched liar and if she was caught sneaking off in the night, someone would pry the truth out of her soon enough.

Margaret expected to find the man dead. He was still unconscious, but he was breathing. She cleaned his wound again and examined her handiwork. Either the stitches were good enough or they weren't. She'd done her best. He wasn't bleeding at least. She trickled water down his throat and laid cold, damp cloths across his brow to bring down the fever. When she could think of nothing else to do for him, she prayed. Let him live. There is enough suffering. Let this man live.

Nothing changed the next night or the next. Thankfully, Mr. Undersee was not a farmer and the barn was left mostly abandoned. Margaret still worried that the soldier would be found. She wanted to move him somewhere safer, but she'd barely managed to drag him into the barn to begin with and there wasn't anywhere safer to hide him on her father's land. If he didn't wake soon, she feared the worst. She could get no food in him. Had she saved him just to watch him slowly starve? Why had she saved him at all? These were the doubts that plagued her by day. Come night, when she slipped away to the barn and found him clinging to life, she remembered what had driven her to risk everything for a man whose name she didn't even know.

On the fourth night, she arrived at the barn with little hope and yelped when she discovered the man sitting up, his back to the wall and a horseshoe clenched in his raised fist. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the orange glow of lantern light and another moment for him to recognize the girl holding the lantern. Margaret lingered by the entrance. She had not been afraid of him while he was sleeping. Now that he was awake, she could not help thinking of the horrible things she had heard about the rebels, the horrible things she had seen them do. This man she had saved was the enemy. He was weak and wounded, but if he wanted, he might could kill her.

Gale sensed her hesitancy. He let the horseshoe drop to the ground with a heavy thud. "I won't hurt you, angel girl," he said. His voice cracked from days of disuse. "Got any water?"

Margaret took a few steps forward, stopped again, and tossed the canteen she had brought within his reach. Gale drank like a man dying of thirst. He was a man of dying of thirst. Water splashed onto his soiled shirt. "Pace yourself," said Margaret. He didn't listen. He drank until there was nothing left, licked the water from his cracked lips, and even considered squeezing out what had soaked into his clothes, but decided it wasn't worth a mouthful of old blood and dirt. The angel girl continued to watch him with wary eyes. She set a covered basket at her feet and nudged it towards him.

"There's food inside," she said. "I could not take much, so make it last."

Gale made a grab for the basket. His stiff muscles sorely protested and he fell back against the wall panting for breath. He cannot hurt you, Margaret told herself. He can hardly move. She took a loaf of oaty bread from the basket and approached the man as she might a wild dog. A foot away from him, she held out her offering. When the man took the bread, their hands brushed and she leapt back. He gave her that tired half-smile again.

"I really won't hurt you," he said, before using his teeth to tear off a good-sized bite of bread from the loaf. Better than hardtack. Better even than anything he ate at home. He was so hungry, though, he supposed a lump of clay would taste like roast chicken to him right then. The girl watched him eat. She kept her arms crossed, face guarded. He finished the bread and she didn't offer anything more from the basket. Gale knew he was in a barn from the smell. He remembered being led away from the big house. Now that he was fed and watered, his mind cleared enough to draw the logical conclusion.

"The people who live here are kingsmen," he said. The angel girl's guarded mask gave way to a flash of panic. He did not need more of an answer than that. If this was a Loyalist homestead, why had she helped him? Why was she feeding him, hiding him? "Do you work for them?"

Margaret wanted to say yes. Let him think she was a servant. It was better if he didn't know who she was. Then, if he was found, he would not be able to incriminate her. She opened her mouth to lie, only to find that she could not. Her father had taught her to value honesty above all else, in spite of consequence. Be honest with others, he told her, and you can never be dishonest with yourself.

"No," said Margaret. "My father is master of this house."

The corners of Gale's eyes crinkled in confusion. He should have known she was no servant. She was too well-spoken and the way she carried herself, proud even when trembling in fear, suggested she was of high birth. A proper lady who had no business harboring fugitives. The penalty for such was death by hanging. Why would this girl risk her neck, go against her family, for the sake of an enemy? He didn't believe that she was sent to trick him. She had given him shelter, stitched his wound with her own hands, reminded him of why he lived on in a bloody world of death and defeat. Whether it was wise, and he doubted it was, he trusted the angel girl.

All the same, he couldn't stay. It was only a matter of time before he was discovered. He would not stick around to be executed or watch the angel girl be executed because of him. Using the wall for support, he stood, managed to hold his balance for a moment before his legs buckled. Margaret forgot to be afraid of him. As before, she rushed to catch him. She wasn't able to prevent his fall, but she softened the landing.

"Stop," she said, putting her hands on his shoulders when he tried to stand again.

"I thank you for all you've done, Miss," said Gale. "And no offense meant, but I'm not safe here. I can't stay."

"You cannot go," said Margaret. "You cannot even walk."

"Bring me a horse then," he said.

"No."

"Then I'll steal one myself."

"The stables are guarded," said Margaret. She removed her hands from his shoulders, but stayed close in case he made another attempt to rise. "With or without a horse, you will not go far. You need rest."

Gale grimaced. He didn't expect to find much rest in the enemy's backyard. The girl was right, though. Standing for just a few seconds had exhausted him. "No one will find you here," said the girl. Her voice lacked confidence. She clearly did not believe herself.

"Am I your prisoner?" said Gale.

"Yes," she said. "Until you are well enough to travel."

"And when I am, you'll bring me a horse."

Margaret gave him the ghost of a smile. Stubborn man, she thought. Then again, he was a Patriot. "Perhaps," she said, rising from her knees. "If you behave."

She was almost out the door when the man asked, "What is your name?" Margaret didn't answer. She had already given him too much.

* * *

The next day, Gale listened for the angel girl. He heard indistinct voices in the distance, mostly the voices of men, but could not make out any of their words. Were they soldiers? How involved with the war was the master of this house? Gale kept note of every question that came to him, so he could ask the angel girl later. Assuming she returned. He tried to remain vigilant, in case there came the need to make an escape, but sleep proved the stronger combatant.

When Gale woke from what he believed to be a quick doze, it was dark, the only light coming from the angel girl's lantern. She sat a safe distance away from him, watching him, her feet tucked under her skirt. The sight of her brought a smile to his lips. He had not believed she would return. When she gave him a timid smile in return, he forgot all of the questions he had meant to ask her.

"How do you feel?" she said.

"Better now that you're here," said Gale. The angel girl's smile turned to a frown. "Sorry, Miss," he added hurriedly. "That's the fever talking. Meant nothing by it."

"I am sure you did not," said Margaret. The stiffness of her tone served as a reminder of their position. She was a lady and he was the son of a poor farmer. She was a Loyalist and he was a Patriot. She was an angel and he had killed more men than he cared to count. Still, he could not stop himself from staring at her as she rummaged through her basket. He had not thought to see anything half so beautiful again.

"Your bandages need changing," she said. "Can I trust you to behave as a gentleman?"

Gale wanted to tell her that he'd witnessed so-called gentlemen, the ones in blood red coats, butcher innocent women and children, but such deeds were not for the ears of an angel. "I swore not to hurt you," he said. "You saved my life, Miss."

Margaret's freckled cheeks pinkened under his somber gaze. She thought of what she'd heard about the Patriots, that they were lawless men without honor or moral. She knew it was not true of them all. Peeta Mellark was the gentlest and the kindest boy she had ever met. Haymitch Abernathy, though crude and sharp tongued, protected the girls who worked for a living at his tavern. Should any man lay a harsh hand upon them, he was certain to loose that hand. What of this Patriot, though? This stranger? His voice was stronger now than yesterday. There was fresh color in cheeks. He was young, strong, and quick to heal. When his strength returned, would he prove as lawless as General Crane insisted all Patriots to be?

"You're still afraid of me," said Gale. "Is it because I'm a soldier or because I'm your enemy?"

"You are not my enemy," said Margaret. She approached him, knelt by his side, and began to unwind the old bandaging from around his middle. Her hands were steady, though a vestige of trepidation lingered in her guarded blue eyes. Her soft fingertips ghosted over his skin like the touch of angel's wings.

"Am I not?" said Gale. "You are loyal to the crown. That makes us enemies by all accounts."

"By your own account, perhaps, but not mine," she said. He caught an odd note to her tone, a touch of resentment and something harder to define. Again he wondered what possible cause she had to risk so much for the sake of an adversary.

"Why did you do it?" said Gale as she stripped away the last of his bandages. For a long moment, she studied the crooked stitches made by her own novice hand. Her lips twisted into a scowl, but the expression made her no less breathtaking. If he were to die tonight, or tomorrow, he would like to taste those lips just once.

Margaret applied fresh bandages and returned to her safe distance. Gale expected her to leave him without an answer to his question. She expected herself to do the same, but then she spoke, giving voice to self-truths which she had long suppressed. "I have witnessed families torn apart by this war. I have heard mothers weep for their sons and husbands. I saw my neighbor's home burned to the ground and my friends dragged into the street, beaten with bayonets, hung in front of the courthouse and left to rot. My loyalties do not lie with any king overseas whom I have never seen or with your General Washington."

"You speak treason on both sides, Miss," said Gale. His smile teased, but his gaze remained somber as ever. "And you have yet to answer my question."

"I saved you because you needed saving," said Margaret. Having let too much slip, she turned to go before those somber eyes pried even more from her.

"Won't you tell me your name?" Gale called after her. She paused, but did not look back at him.

"No," she said.

"Do you wish to know mine?"

"No."

It was best if they remained strangers to one another.

* * *

Only as the nights passed, Margaret found it difficult to continue thinking of him as a stranger. She lingered in the barn longer than was necessary or wise. They rarely discussed the war. Instead he told her of his home, the places he cherished, and of his family. She laughed at the stories of his younger brothers and their constant mischief making, but her favorites were those of the girl he hunted with.

"She can shoot better than anyone," Gale told her. "Everyone knows better than to stir up trouble with the Everdeens, unless they want an arrow in the arse. Apologies for the language."

"Do you love her?" said Margaret.

"Of course," said Gale. "As a sister." He noticed the way angel girl's expression, which had suddenly dimmed, turned bright again and he tried not to smile. He could not, however, resist toying with her jealousy. "She was my first kiss."

"You kiss your sisters where you come from?"

Gale chuckled. "We were barely more than children. She whooped me good for it. I never tried again."

"I wish I could meet her," said Margaret.

"You could if you came home with me," said Gale. The words came out more serious than he'd intended. He waited for the angel girl to take offense, or worse, to scoff at the idea of running away with a filthy farmer's son. She did neither.

"You won't be going home," she said, a melancholy frown tugging at her lips. "You are a soldier and an army camp is hardly the place for a woman."

Gale felt a fluttering of hope in his belly. "Suppose I didn't rejoin to the army?"

Margaret blushed. She looked to her hands folded in her lap. "You must," she said. "I did not save your life just to have you hung as a deserter."

She was right, of course. As much as he wanted to turn his back on the war and return to his family, with the angel girl, he knew that he could not. Death did not frighten him, not anymore, not after all he had seen, but he could not bear the thought of what would happen to his mother and siblings should he be executed. They would be shunned. They would be left to carry the shame of his cowardice.

Here in this barn, though, with the angel girl, he only wanted to forget the war for a while longer. He closed his eyes and imagined what could have been if they had met in a different time, under different circumstances. "I'd build you a house," he said. "A two story house with real glass windows. There's this meadow on the outskirts of town and that is where I would put the house, right in the middle, so that in the springtime you could look out any window and see the wildflowers."

Margaret was silent a moment. Then she said, "What sort of flowers?"

With his eyes still closed, Gale smiled. "Bellflowers, and Blazing Stars, and Yellow Buckeyes. We would plant our own blackberry bushes."

"What about strawberries?"

"Those, too, if you want them. We'll have our own cow, of course."

"Can we call her Spots?"

Gale opened his eyes. "Spots?" he snorted. "That's a bit self-evident, don't you think?"

"I have always wanted a cow by that name," said Margaret.

"Fine, but I get to name the horse."

And so they continued to plan their imaginary life together until the sun rose. Margaret raced home in the pale light of dawn and barely had time to change before her mother summoned her. All through breakfast she was silent and aloof.

"You are so pale this morning," said Mrs. Undersee. "And you've hardly touched your food."

"I slept little last night," said Margaret. Her parents exchanged concerned looks, but neither of them made any further comment. It was not unusual to have difficulty sleeping when a war waged just beyond their front door. Little did they know that the war was far from her mind. She was thinking only of a little house among the wildflowers.

* * *

During the day, when he was not sleeping, Gale tested his endurance. His wound brought him little pain now. He could pace the barn for hours without losing his breath. The time had come for him to leave, but he was not yet ready. How could he return to the blood and smoke of the battlefield when he had been given heaven these last few weeks? How could he live without the angel girl's smile, her sweet voice, and even sweeter laugh? When she visited him in the night, she brought sunlight with her. He pretended that his wound still caused him trouble, though he suspected she was not fooled by the act. That she pretended with him gave him further hope.

After seeing Thom blown to smithereens, Gale had been convinced that he'd died with his friend that day, but then the angel girl saved him in more ways than she knew. There were parts of their fantasy life which he never told her about, such as their children, and though he knew they could never be, they reminded him of why he fought. He dreamed of a nation where those blue-eyed children might live free from tyranny.

Finally he accepted that he could not remain in this barn forever. The war raged on and there were other children, of flesh and blood, not just the stuff of dreams, who deserved freedom. When the sun set, he stood to wait for the angel girl, whose name he still did not know, and who he loved beyond his wildest imaginings. Margaret's smile wilted the moment she saw the burlap sack, full of the rations he had set aside from what she'd brought him over the weeks.

"You're leaving?" she said.

"We both know I should have left days ago," said Gale. The truth, after so many nights of dwelling in a dream, pained him more than any bayonet to the gut. Margaret tried not to let show that it pained her as well.

"I promised you a horse," she said, speaking to him as she had in the beginning.

"I don't need one, Miss," said Gale, matching her tone. Farewell was easier if they pretended to be strangers again. "You have given me more than enough." He had not cried when he said goodbye to his family, he had not cried when he searched the carnage for some small part of Thom's body to be sent home for burial, but now he felt a year's worth of tears gather behind his eyes. He could not look at the angel girl a moment longer, else he might never bring himself to look away.

Gale walked through the light cast by her lantern. He stepped out of the barn, into the real world, for the first time in weeks.

"Wait," cried Margaret. Slowly, he turned to face her, though he knew it was a mistake. "There is one more thing I would like to give you," she said, moving towards him. Those blue eyes burned with the same fierce determination he remembered from the night she refused to let him die. "Two things, truthfully."

"I can't take any more from you."

"My name is Margaret," she said, ignoring his protests. She stood so close to him that he felt the tickle of her breath on his cheeks. "Margaret Undersee. Now when the war is over, you will know how to find me again."

"And the second thing?" said Gale.

Margaret pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes to give him a chaste kiss. Her lips lingered a second longer than any familial peck. Gale didn't realize he had dropped the burlap sack until he felt her silky hair against one hand and her smooth cheek against the other. When he deepened the kiss, she did not shy away. Instead she wound her arms tightly about his waist, unwilling to let him go, not now, not ever, not until every last star in the sky blew out like the tiny flame of a candle in the window of their imaginary house.

Gale wished he could lay her down on a feather mattress rather than a damp bed of moldy straw. He wished they did not have to smother their sounds of pleasure against lips and warm flesh. More than anything, he wished he could spend years worshipping her they way angels deserve to be worshipped, but it had been a long time since he'd last been with a woman and he did not have the endurance. There was no need to ask if she'd been with other men. He knew from the way she trembled, the pretty blush which spread from the roots of her hair to her tiny feet, and the clumsy, yet eager, touch of her hands, that he was the first. He could not give her a feather mattress, or safety, or years of affection, but he did offer patience, tenderness, whispered and breathy endearments.

When it was over, he held her close and revelled in the slight pressure of her head against his chest and her legs tangled with his. Neither of them spoke for hours. They listened to the cicadas and the frogs singing to each other. Margaret was the first to speak. She stopped drawing lazy circles on chest and lightly grazed her fingertips over the fresh scar just below his ribs.

"Did I hurt you?" she said.

Gale laughed. The sound of it thundered in her ears. "I'm supposed to ask you that," he said. She nuzzled her face against him and he felt her smile on his skin.

"You did not," she said.

"Nor did you."

They were silent again for a few minutes more. Then Margaret propped up on her elbows to look him in the eyes. "I still do not know your name."

"Gale Hawthorne," he said.

"Gale Hawthorne," she repeated, savoring each syllable. "Stay awhile longer."

He knew it was unwise, cowardly even, to agree, but how could he refuse an angel's request? "I'll stay," he said, pulling her back down to him. He would stay forever if she asked him to.

* * *

The nights were too short and Margaret dreaded the mornings. She grew restless and reckless during the days, sometimes sneaking out to the barn for a stolen moment, never long enough to satisfy the ache in her soul.

"I must go," she said between frenzied kisses. "Someone will come looking for me soon."

"And such a shock they'll find," said Gale. "They'll come in search of a proper English lady and find you cozied up in the lap of a traitor." He leaned in to kiss her again, but Margaret put both hands to his chest to hold him back.

"It is no laughing matter," she said, eyeing him sternly. Even so, a smile snuck across her lips as his hands found their way under the voluminous folds of her petticoat. "Truly, I must go now."

"Then go," said Gale. "I'm not holding you prisoner."

But he was, with his touch upon her thigh, and his warmth, and his mere presence, which so beautifully simplified the world around them. With him, she did not agonize over duty and loyalty. With him, her conflicted heart was at ease. She let him kiss her again, and would have kept on kissing him in return, had it not been for the thunder of hooves.

Margaret went suddenly pale. She leapt from Gale's lap to peer through the crack between the barn doors. She saw a blur of horses, but could not make out any of the riders. "Are you expecting company?" said Gale once the thunder passed them by. Margaret shook her head. When she turned around, she found him standing close behind.

"Stay here," she told him. Gale caught her arm as she nudged open the door just wide enough to slip through.

"I cannot let you go alone," he said. "It may not be safe."

Margaret pressed a swift kiss to his bearded cheek. "Safer for me than you," she said. "Stay." Then she slipped away into the daylight outside.

* * *

Margaret hurried along the shady outskirts of the yard and snuck into the house through the backdoor, only to find her mother waiting for her.

"Mama, I was only-"

"There is no time now to discuss where you've been. General Crane is here. He brings news." Mrs. Undersee paused. She eyed Margaret's muddied hem and loose curls. "Lord Corilanous intends to visit us," she said.

"When?" said Margaret.

"Tomorrow."

Margaret turned cold with fear. So soon? She longed to return to the barn. Gale could not be there come morning. The sooner he left, the better, or so her spinning head advised her dizzy heart. If the rumors about Lord Corilanous' were even half true, he was a man to be greatly feared. She needed to tell Gale immediately, but her mother was already ushering her down the hall.

"General Crane waits in the parlor," said Mrs. Undersee. "He has asked to see you. Do try your best to behave."

Margaret couldn't concentrate on a word General Crane spoke to her. She gazed intently out the open parlor window, towards the shadow of the barn creeping across the yard as the sun set at its own cruel and leisurely pace. She felt the hours slipping away, hours she could be spending with her rebel soldier, the last hours they may have together. He did not yet know the danger he was in.

"You are distracted this evening, Miss Undersee," said Crane. At being addressed so directly, and so frankly, Margaret forced herself to turn from the window to the general. Crane was as oily as his slicked-back hair. She remembered teasing his goatee with Johanna Mason, before Sir Undersee moved them to the country, before the war, before Crane was promoted to general, in the days when he was still nothing more than a greedy, opportunistic worm.

"These are distracting times, sir," said Margaret. "There is a war in my backyard. You must forgive the weak and wandering mind of a young woman."

General Crane frowned. He looked uncertain as to whether she meant to insult him, which she did, but which he decided was not the case. "Of course you are forgiven," he said. "I have spoken to your father many times on your behalf. Does that shock you?"

Margaret was indeed shocked. She gaped at the general. He took her silence as encouragement to continue.

"I have long held you in high esteem," he said. "I see how great this senseless war plagues you."

"My lord, you are mistaken. I-"

General Crane raised a hand to quiet her. "There is no cause for shame. God did not see fit to provide women with a constitution for bloodshed. You cannot be expected to overcome your divine design."

"My lord, I must insist on-"

"I have written to my mother about you," said Crane, as if Margaret had not tried to speak. She was shocked into silence again. "She agrees that it is not healthy for a young woman to be exposed to such tawdry things."

Tawdry, thought Margaret, horrified by his description of the atrocities she'd witnessed. Was it tawdry for Peeta to sacrifice his own limbs for the freedom of his countrymen? Was it tawdry for the Cartwrights to be burned out of house and home by their own neighbors? Was it tawdry that she had risked her life to save a stranger? What might General Crane think of her feminine constitution if he knew she had sewn a man's flesh together not so long ago?

Oblivious to Margaret's growing rage, General Crane carried on. "My dear mother says there is always a place for you at her manor in England. I believe you would be quite happy there until I return. Lord Corilanous does not expect the rebels to hold out much longer. I could be home within a year and then-"

Margaret stood when he reached out to take her hand. She could not allow him to go any further. It was tawdry to be trapped in the parlor with a man she detested, while the man she loved agonized in wait for her return.

"Please extend my kindest thanks to your mother," said Margaret. "But my place is with my family. If you will excuse me, I am not feeling well and wish to retire early."

"Of course," said General Crane. He rose to see her from the room, but Margaret swept through the door before he was standing straight.

* * *

Time had never trickled so slowly as Gale watched the daylight fade through a chink in the barn wall, waiting for Margaret to return, dreading what the unexpected visitors might mean. More than once his fear that something may have happened to her nearly drove him from his sanctuary, but then he reminded himself that if the riders were kingsmen, he would only put her in danger. All the same, as twilight finally arrived and Margaret did not, Gale could no longer remain hidden. His fear was too great. He had to see with his own eyes that she was safe.

Gale had not taken more than a few steps into the moonlit yard, before he spotted a lone figure hurtling towards him. Margaret did not stop running until she was in his arms. She allowed him to hold her for a moment, he felt her heart racing, before hurriedly leading him back into the barn.

"What's happened?" said Gale, his own heart beginning to race at the sight of her pale, anxious face. Her hands were shaking. He gripped them both in his own and held fast.

"You must go," she said. "Tonight. You must be far from this place come dawn. Corilanous makes his way here even as we speak. If he should find you…" She trailed off. There was no need to say more. Gale knew of Corilanous and his merciless reputation. "I gave the stable hand a drink laced with laudanum. He should be out cold by now and will not waken for many hours." Margaret smiled faintly. "I did promise you a horse, though you have not exactly been well-behaved."

She tried to loosen her hands from his grip, which he only tightened. Gale's lips parted. He was prepared to plead with her to come with him. She was right in that he could not be here when Corilanous arrived, yet how could he leave her, knowing they may never meet again, knowing how fragile life and love were compared to the brutality of war? He found himself incapable of speech. He did not know the words to express how he felt.

"I love you," said Margaret, speaking for him. "I will never forget you, but I cannot bear to witness your death, and if you stay, you will be found, you will die."

Gale let go of her hands only to draw her closer. He kissed her fiercely and thoroughly, praying all the while for the slow trickle of time to freeze entirely and leave them at peace in this moment, together. Too soon, Margaret broke away with a choked whimper. Tears quivered in her eyes. She refused to let them fall for fear she would drown in them.

"Go," she said. He nodded once. Yes, he would go, he would steal one of her father's horses and keep riding until he found his comrades. He would fight for freedom against tyranny, for his family, for the friends he had lost, because an angel had given him life and he would not repay her by wasting it away in hiding. He would see this war finished and then…

"I will find you," he said. "I will come back for you."

"I know," said Margaret. She kissed him softly one last time and then pushed him away. "Now go, please."

After he had slipped through the barn doors into the shadows, Margaret sunk to her knees in the straw where she had given herself to him, body and heart, not so long ago. There was no stopping the tears now.

* * *

On the morning of Corilanous' arrival, Margaret took ill and was confined to her room, where she writhed in the grip of fevered nightmares. During a conscious moment, she listened to her parents whispering at her bedside.

"This is too much for her," said Mrs. Undersee. "Can't you see that?"

"I see," said Mr. Undersee.

When Margaret's fever finally broke, Corilanous and his men were gone. She was not sorry to have missed them. Her mother insisted she stay in bed, though Margaret longed to breathe fresh air. She spent hours gazing out the window, past the barn, over the rolling green pasture, to the woods beyond, her thoughts drifting like mist after a rebel on horseback. She clung to the belief that Gale was safe, wherever he was, though in her heart she knew it to be untrue. None of them were safe, regardless their loyalties, and yet, oddly, she was not afraid.

During her confinement, when she was not actively thinking of Gale, as she was always thinking of him in some way, Margaret mulled over the questions that had hounded her since the war broke. The answers that had alluded her came into sharp focus as she gazed out the window. It was clear to her now where she belonged and she was prepared when her parents deemed her well enough to make the announcement she'd known even in her fevered dreams was coming.

On the very night she joined them at the dinner table, Mr. Undersee declared that they would be returning to England. He let his wife take over in elucidating their travel plans. "We'll leave before the month has ended. General Crane has arranged safe passage for us and his mother has agreed to take us in until affairs are put in order for our own estate. You must write him with our gratitude."

Margaret set down her silverware, squared her shoulders, and squarely met her mother's scrutiny. "I will not," she said.

"You most certainly will," said Mrs. Undersee. "Without his aide, it would not be possible for us to return home."

Margaret did not so much as blink as she looked from her mother, to her father, and then to her mother again. "I will not thank him," she said calmly, "because I will not be going with you. This is my home and I'm staying."

Without another word, she took her leave from the table, ignoring her mother's call to return. "Let her go," said Mr. Undersee, silencing his wife and preventing her from following their daughter.

Mrs. Undersee would not have it, however. Over the following weeks, as she prepared for their journey, she ignored Margaret's repeated insistence that she would remain with or without them. Margaret stole away to the barn whenever possible to escape. She had made her choice. Gale had promised to find her once the war ended. As she sat in the hay, remembering his presence, the warmth of his embrace, his crooked smile, and all the dreams they had built together, she accepted reality. She did not doubt that he would strive to keep his promise, but she also knew it was foolish to believe they would ever be reunited. Too much stood between them, too many miles, too much time, a war that God only knew how long would last. Margaret had not decided to stay for his sake or any hope of one day building a real house with him in some far off meadow. Her reasons more concrete than that.

"If you've come to change my mind, you won't," she said when she heard the creak of the barn door. She did not need to look to know it was her father who'd come.

"That is not why I'm here." He had not come to argue, to threaten, or cajole. He knew his daughter well and he was not at all surprised by her decision, despite the pain it brought him. "From the day you came wailing into this world, I knew where your loyalties rested." The smile he gave her was full of heartbreak, but also full of pride. "My first generation American," he said, his endearment for her no longer teasing.

For the first time since making her decision, Margaret's certainty wavered. She loved her parents deeply, both of them, and suddenly the thought of being parted from them filled her with pain. She was afraid of being on her own, but that was not what gave her doubts just then. What hurt the most was the betrayal. To stay, to chose the country of her birth over that of her ancestors, meant becoming her parents' enemy.

"Can you forgive me?" she said.

"Oh, my dear girl," said Mr. Undersee. He drew her into his arms and held her as he had not done since she was a child. "There is nothing to forgive. You are our daughter and not an ocean, nor a war, will ever stand between us."

Margaret's doubts fled as swift as they'd fallen. She buried her face in her father's coat, clinging to him, knowing that he would still be with her even when they parted.

* * *

 _Dear Mama,_

 _It pleases me to hear that you and Father are happy. Now that there is peace, I do hope we can see each other again, as it has been too long since I've received one of your lectures, and I've found I do rather miss them. I am quite well. Perhaps you remember the Mellarks, our old neighbors in Philadelphia? They took me in after you left and have been good to me. I cannot say that life has been a dream. The war took its toll on us all, but through all the hardship, I have not once doubted it was right for me to stay. I hope you understand now my reasons. This land, this brand new country, is so full of hope and possibility. Over the years, I've seen that the bloodshed was worth what we have now, a chance to flourish, to become something more different and more wonderful than anything before. As it is written in our constitution, "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity." I have given myself to this cause, and yet you and Father remain close to my heart. My love for you lives on alongside my love of country without any conflict between them._

 _Love always, your Margaret_

* * *

Philadelphia roared with life, and laughter, and the promise of a golden future. The war had been over for five years and, while the memory of it lingered, something grand was being raised from the rubble. America had won its independence and proven its resilience. The spirit of a nation grew ever stronger. As Gale was buoyed along the city streets, he marched with a purpose, feeling himself a soldier once more. He had made it home, safe and whole, to find his family just as he'd left them. He had sought out Thom's sweetheart and delivered his friend's message to her, urging her to go on with her life in honor of him. He had helped rebuild his town board by board, brick by brick, and hunted the woods he so loved with Katniss.

Through all of it, he searched for an angel, writing letters long into the night, travelling from place to place, asking every stranger he passed if they knew anyone by the name of Margaret Undersee. After five long years of vigilant inquiry, he'd met a traveller, Peeta Mellark, who answered his prayers and pointed him in the direction of Philadelphia. "You'll find her there," Peeta had told him. "Better than that, I'll take you to her myself."

Now he and Peeta came to a standstill at the end of a quiet street, removed from the rush and clamor of the rest of the city. Peeta pointed to the house at the very end. There was no need. Gale saw her kneeling in the little garden out front. Though she was turned away from them, he recognized her in an instant. In all the years that had come between them, he had not forgotten her golden curls, the shape of her, the exact angle at which she cocked her head when concentrating. Without another moment's hesitation, he broke into a run, leaving Peeta cheering behind him.

Margaret looked up at the sound of racing footsteps and saw the dark-haired man coming towards her. A cry caught in her chest. She could not believe her eyes, for it was a ghost running down the street, his eyes never straying from her. The ghost slowed as he approached the garden gate, finally coming to a stop, clutching at his side as his breath caught up to him.

"I'd have gotten here sooner," he said, still gasping, "except I couldn't find a horse."

Hearing his voice, seeing that crooked grin after so many years, Margaret didn't know what to do. With her hands buried in the earth, she laughed as she had not in a long time, hard enough for her belly to ache. She only stopped when Gale lifted her to her feet. He drank in every inch of her and she blushed, thinking that she was not the same girl of five years ago, yet he did not care how the years had hardened her. He did not care that her rosy cheeks had turned hollow, that her hands were now nearly as calloused as his own, or that the softness of youth had given way to the rough edges of having survived the unthinkable.

"Angel girl," he said, putting his forehead to her own dirt-streaked brow. "It's time to go home."

"Home?" she said, her palms pressed against him over a wound now healed, a scar which had reminded him all these years of why he continued to fight.

"You don't think I've been idle all this time?" said Gale. "I've been rather busy, you know, building a house for us. It's in this meadow and from every window you can see wildflowers. There's a cow named Spots, as well. I named the horse George."

"George?" she said, wrinkling her nose in disapproval, though her blue eyes twinkled merrily. "We'll see about that."


End file.
